


The Shade and his Daughter

by KouriArashi



Series: The Sum of Its Parts [10]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF Stiles, But also, Dead Peter Hale, Dreams, F/M, Fae & Fairies, Family, Ghosts, Hale Family Feels, M/M, Magic, Magical Artifacts, Multi, Mystery, Pack Dynamics, Pack Feels, Sassy Peter Hale, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-24
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-02-26 19:41:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 58,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2664005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KouriArashi/pseuds/KouriArashi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is quite content knowing that Peter Hale is dead and in the ground, which is why it's a little disconcerting when Peter starts showing up in his dreams, telling Stiles that his daughter is in trouble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ha ha ha I know that normally I don't start a new part of TSOIP right away but I'm just hella excited for this part.
> 
> A friendly reminder that I basically only use season one and two narrative for Peter, with a special ‘fuck you’ to Visionary and a complete lack of acknowledgement of season four. =D
> 
> Also I have no idea why Talia would have taken Peter’s memory of his own daughter? So yeah, I’m just going to pretend that didn’t happen either. Also also, Malia is the same age as them in the canon, but by now Stiles and the others are like nineteen? But I’m leaving Malia as sixteen because that works better for me. Let’s be real, this series has nothing to do with canon anymore, LOL. I only know about one quarter of Malia's actual backstory because I've gotten all of it from gifs on tumblr so hopefully I got most of it vaguely correct.
> 
> ETA: Wanted to mention that my Malia will have very little in common with canon!Malia as I plan on actually acknowledging that she should have the mentality/maturity of the eight year old she was before becoming a coyote for eight years. <3

 

Stiles is one month into his second semester of college when the dreams start.

If he’s going to be honest, he’s sort of amazed he made it that far without any sort of supernatural shenanigans happening. But San Francisco is a very different place from Beacon Hills. Supernatural creatures tend to avoid big cities, everyone had said, but he hadn’t realized that it was actually true until he got there. Until his third week of classes, when he realized that he really hadn’t seen another non-human the entire time.

Beacon Hills is a beacon, most people agree, and he thinks some of the people and creatures that have come there have been drawn by more than his reputation. It’s a prime piece of territory, Derek has always said, something about the way the ley lines intersect. But with his father and Chris Argent there to look after things while he’s gone, he’s not worried.

Of course, things in the larger hunting community are nowhere near as quiet. He’d stirred up one hell of a wasp’s nest when he had informed everyone about what had happened at the prison in Arizona. He didn’t have a front seat to the uproar, but he got information from Chris and followed along with interest. He knew that a bunch of hunters – and not just ones he was already friends with, like Chris and Mikael, but bigshots from other families like the Stoddards and the Nazarios – went to Arizona to demand answers.

He wasn’t surprised to hear that the Gutierrez family had managed to at least partly squirm free. The youngest brother, Hector, had vanished. Francisco had promptly blamed everything on him, saying that Hector had found out what Liliana did and killed her without consulting anyone else, and he had only lied about Rick Santos’ alibi to take suspicion off his brother. It still wasn’t the sort of answer anybody was in love with, but it was a far cry from the entire family conspiring to kill Liliana and frame her husband.

Even so, they had been blacklisted. Nobody wanted to work with them anymore. They were staying on their own territory and keeping their heads down. A smart move.

A lot of people were asking questions about the prisons, too, and Chris and Julien were lobbying hard to get some sort of oversight in place, but so far it wasn’t getting them much of anywhere. They didn’t quite have the firepower they would need to just raid them, even if they knew where they were, and Julien pointed out that it was likely that a number of the inmates truly did deserve to be incarcerated.

There had been a number of small skirmishes, hunters fighting with each other, some assholes who killed a bunch of peaceful werewolves just to make a point, and an enormous argument about whether the alpha pack hunters were even _necessary_ anymore, now that they had it on good authority that the trials being given were fair. Stiles keeps his nose out of it as much as possible. Nobody wants to hear his opinions, and Chris is handling it, with some help. He just gets the details and keeps his app with all the hunter information as up to date as possible. Lines are being drawn – not metaphorically, but territory lines, and supernatural creatures are learning where it’s safe for them to live and where it isn’t, who can be trusted and can’t.

The interesting thing about that – and Stiles’ original intentions – is that as werewolves and other creatures learn which hunters can be trusted, they form more alliances, solidifying the backbone of what’s currently the resistance. Stiles doesn’t think they’re going to stay the resistance very long. Momentum is on their side. A lot of the younger hunters, people who haven’t spent the last fifty years living by these rules, are forming their own splinter groups in places like Oregon or Texas, places where the ‘establishment’ hunters can’t be trusted to be fair. They’re actively seeking out the local werewolves to make an offer of an alliance on good faith.

But as they get bolder and that backbone grows, the older hunters are getting louder and angrier and more violent.

“It’s kind of like the fight for gay rights,” Stiles said to Derek absently while he updated the app.

“Yeah, except we can’t just wait for all the old bigots to die,” Derek grumbled in response.

Stiles is amused, but can’t help but agree. There are times when it feels like everything has been doused in gunpowder and gasoline, and all it’s going to take is one spark, and then there’s going to be a bloodbath.

But he doesn’t dwell on it, mostly because he simply doesn’t have _time_. He doesn’t have ringside seats, so he gets occasionally emails and stays up to date but doesn’t spend a lot of time thinking about it. He goes home one weekend every month, and one time in early November he has to make an emergency trip home to soothe the temper of some distraught banshees, but other than that, he’s able to devote his attention to his schoolwork. It’s a good thing, too. He purposefully loaded himself up with easy, gen-ed credits for his first semester, aside from his Intro to Criminology class. He has a computer science class, a history course which focuses around things he already knows, Geology 101, and he’s continuing in Spanish.

The quiet persisted over the winter break, and he’s sort of wondering if his father broke some kneecaps and made some threats about what would happen if anyone disturbed Stiles’ holiday at home. He picks up some work at the station to keep himself busy. Scott, Boyd, and Mac are working as well.

Christmas itself is an insane gathering. Derek wants to see Cora, and Justin has absolutely no objection to spending the holiday with someone who knows how to cook, so the entire alpha pack crashes at the den. Jackson is back from his first semester in Denver and bragging about how he killed at lacrosse. There are so many people around that even Stiles can’t keep track of it all, and he has a great vacation.

Since things are going reasonably well, his second semester is looking a little more difficult than the first. More Spanish, and a second semester of geology – “What? Rocks are interesting!” Stiles protested when his father gave him a funny look – plus Intro to Sociology, a Poli-Sci course, and another criminology course called ‘crime and economics’. He wanted to take Psych 101, but Derek growled at him when he pitched the idea of an eighteen-credit semester. He’ll do it next year.

He’s still not sure what the point of any of this is, since he doesn’t know what he’ll do with a degree in criminal justice once he’s back in Beacon Hills, but, well. Everyone thinks he should do it, and he’s enjoying the shit out of higher education.

Scott and Danny both tried out for, and made, the lacrosse teams of their respective schools. Stiles thought about it, but decided to pass on it. He enjoys lacrosse, and he wants to stay physically active, but he just won’t have time. There are other things that are more important to him, and one of them is making sure he’s available to the others. They all have their own adjustments to make.

Lydia is, for once, having to work at her classes. She’s at the library more than she’s at the temporary den. Danny has the longest commute, and it tires him out, though he never complains about it. Scott has trouble controlling his powers when he and Allison are being crowded on public transportation. Boyd meets a cute girl who’s clearly into him, but doesn’t know how to ask her out and work around the ‘werewolf’ issues. Mac is starving half the time because her class schedule lands her on campus at lunch time every day and dinner three times a week, and their vegetarian options suck.

But these are, for Stiles and his pack, mundane issues. Each one is dealt with, in turn, and things settle into patterns and contentment.

He should have known it wasn’t going to last.

The dream starts like most of his dreams, with one key difference: he’s aware that he’s dreaming. Most of the time when that happens, he wakes right up, but this time he doesn’t. He’s standing in front of a large metal gate that’s propped open. Behind it is a grandly built house that he instantly recognizes, even though he’s only seen it in photographs. The Hale house, before it burned down.

He approaches it cautiously, because even when dreaming, he’s careful nowadays. Nobody answers when he knocks on the front door, but he knows that he’s meant to go inside, so he pushes open the door. “Hello? Anybody home?” he calls out, and hears a voice from the interior.

“This way,” the voice says, and it’s Peter Hale’s voice. He would recognize it anywhere. It’s a little funny, he thinks, because really he only exchanged a handful or two of sentences with the man. But everything about the hour or so he spent in Peter’s presence is etched into his memory in indelible ink.

It’s a little unusual, for a dream about Peter. Those usually involve a lot of blood and screaming and being wedged into small places, and they end when Derek shakes him awake. This is different, this is just Peter sitting Indian-style on the floor of the Hale house, polished and unburned but empty. The walls are cream and the floor hardwood, but there’s no furniture, no curtains, nothing to show that it’s being lived in.

Peter himself looks different from the last time Stiles saw him, but that makes sense. That Peter had been at death’s doorstep, burned and bruised and poisoned. This is Peter as he was in life, for those few brief days after he healed himself and before he was captured. His dark brown hair is slicked back, and he’s dressed in a white V-neck and black pants, with bare feet.

“Stiles,” he says, as Stiles comes into the room. “I need a favor.”

Stiles sits down across from him. What the hell, right? It’s just a dream. “That’s a little unusual, coming from you.”

“Yes, well. Since you thoughtfully shuffled me free from this mortal coil, my options are limited.” Peter doesn’t sound angry, though. Just practical. “My daughter is in trouble, Stiles, and I need to do something.”

Stiles chokes a little. He’s aware that Peter had had children – Derek mentioned a son at one point – but he thought they had been killed in the fire. Then again, if Cora had escaped, he supposes it’s possible that someone else had as well. But how would Peter know that? He’s been dead for years at this point. Then he realizes he’s trying to apply logic to a conversation he’s having in a dream with a dead man, and lets it go. “Your daughter?”

Peter nods, unperturbed by Stiles’ reaction. “My daughter,” he says again. “She’s in trouble. And you’re going to help me help her.”

“Okay, hold the phone, back up the truck,” Stiles says, and Peter arches an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Why don’t you start at the beginning. Your daughter. She’s alive? Survived the fire?”

“She wasn’t in the fire,” Peter says. “Let me start at the beginning. I was, shall we say, somewhat imprudent in my relationships when I was younger. When I was twenty-two, a girlfriend of mine became pregnant. She gave birth to a baby girl, and named her Malia. But she and I were not . . . close.”

“You barely knew her, didn’t you,” Stiles says, trying not to laugh, thinking of Peter being a stupid young adult like the rest of them.

“As you say,” Peter says, his lips quirking in a smile. “We met at a party, a wolf gathering of sorts. For her own reasons, she chose to give birth to the child, but did not want to raise her. I agreed to support the child financially, but at that time in my life had no interest in being a father. So she was adopted to a family in Beacon Hills, where I could keep an eye on her. I became casual friends with her adoptive parents and I visited Malia occasionally. Many years after that, I married and had a son of my own. The Tate family moved out of Beacon Hills when Malia was six. I kept in touch, but we weren’t close. I hadn’t seen Malia in over three years at the time of the fire, and she never knew I was her father. Her mother always called me a family friend.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, trying to keep all of this straight. “So how do you know Malia is in trouble? I mean . . . you’re dead. Right?”

“I am indeed,” Peter says. “Six feet under.”

“More like ten. We didn’t want anything digging you up.”

“Well, thank you for that,” Peter says. “I confess that I don’t know very much about what’s happening with Malia. As far as my limited knowledge goes, someone is using her blood to try to summon me. That’s the only reason why I would know anything was happening with her at all.”

“Since you’re dead,” Stiles says. He wants to be very firm on this.

Peter gives him an amused glance. “Yes. But there are types of blood and spirit magic that can reach across the lines between realms. How anyone would have even _known_ I had a daughter is a matter of some debate, but clearly someone has discovered our relationship.”

“Okay. And . . .?”

“And, nothing,” Peter says. “That’s all I know.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to know more about what’s happening with Malia or who’s doing the magic or anything like that,” Stiles says, and then waves a hand to indicate their surroundings. “But why _this_? Why are you _here_ , talking to _me_?”

“Ah,” Peter says. “It’s an intriguing question, isn’t it?” He, too, glances at the house they’re sitting in. “Bringing someone back from the dead, even in spirit, is quite difficult and requires a large amount of juice. My guess is that I got halfway and then got stuck. But I have enough of a metaphysical connection to you to speak to you, since you’re the one who took the alpha power from me.”

“That’s . . . actually kind of fascinating,” Stiles says despite himself. “But, uh. I can’t exactly help summon you.”

“No, but you can check on my daughter and see what sort of trouble she’s in, and who’s trying to summon me, et cetera,” Peter says. “I can give you the information that you would need to track her down.”

“Uh, sure, okay,” Stiles says. He pushes a hand through his hair. “Are you – are you actually Peter Hale?”

Peter looks down at his hands, then arches his eyebrows at Stiles.

“No, I mean, this is just some fucked up dream I’m having, right?” Stiles says. “I’ve probably had stranger ones. That’s not the point. I mean, you’re not _actually_ him. Not the Peter who – ” His voice catches. Up until this moment, he hadn’t thought about the things Peter Hale had done.

“There’s nothing I can do to hurt you here, Stiles,” Peter says, and he sounds amused, which frankly pisses Stiles off. “I’m dead, remember?”

“And yet,” Stiles says, gesturing. “I mean, why should I help you?”

“Don’t,” Peter says. “You have no reason to. Help Malia. She’s sixteen and wherever she is, whatever’s happening to her, she’s probably frightened. Don’t make her suffer for my sins, Stiles.” His face is utterly serious. “Please.”

“Jesus, fine,” Stiles says, and then, without warning, he’s awake. Staring up at the dark ceiling of the bedroom in their apartment. Derek’s asleep in his human form, sprawled out next to him. There are other wolves curled up nearby. He blinks and looks around. None of them are awake, so he clearly wasn’t moving a lot or crying out in his sleep.

Stiles shakes his head. Sometimes his dreams seem very clear when he wakes up, but if he goes back to sleep, they’re vague memories in the morning. That’s undoubtedly what’s going to happen this time. He closes his eyes, rolls onto his side, and lets himself relax. In the morning, he probably won’t even remember this.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

In the morning, everything about the dream with Peter is as clear as the conversation he had with Boyd about his girlfriend that he had the night before. As clear as going over the grocery list with Allison, since it was her turn to go to the store. It doesn’t feel like a dream at all.

Stiles thinks about mentioning it to someone, but changes his mind. He’s had strange and vivid dreams before; the Lunesta can do weird things to his brain while he’s asleep. Besides, there are some basic things he can verify. Like the birth of a girl named Malia in Beacon Hills, when Peter was in his early twenties. There’s no way he could have known that name on his own, so that would be a simple way to confirm it.

So he sets off to school with that in mind. Of course, first he has a political science lecture to attend. Then a free hour which he spends doing the reading for his class after lunch, which is the criminology course. He goes straight from there to geology, and by then it’s four PM and he’s hopping on the bus to go back to the apartment. He puts his earbuds in and does some of his Spanish homework while he rides along.

He makes a salad and cooks hamburgers on the broiler (he misses his grill like crazy sometimes). He makes some frozen French fries and then sits down with the reading he needs to do for his classes the next day and somewhere in there he falls asleep.

Almost immediately, he’s back in the Hale house, and Peter is right where he left him, looking expectant. “Well?” he asks.

“Well, what?” Stiles asks, and Peter just looks at him. “Jesus, Peter. I have a life now. I have school and shit. I can’t just drop everything and – ”

Peter’s on his feet, one hand twisting into the fabric of Stiles’ T-shirt and dragging him close. “I asked you to do one simple thing for me, Stiles, and I expect it to be done.”

Stiles slams his forehead into the bridge of Peter’s nose, and the dead man lets go with a stifled yelp, staggering back a few steps.

“Let’s set some ground rules here,” Stiles says, as Peter rubs a hand against his face. “Rule number one: I still have no idea whether or not you’re really here, or if this is all some really bizarre dream, so it takes a somewhat lower precedence to me than my _real life_. I’ve fought kind of hard to have that life, and I’m not giving it up, least of all for you.

“Rule number two: I’m not some sixteen-year-old klutz that you can terrify into submission anymore. I’ve faced down alphas and warlocks and a lot of different nasties. You’re still the monster under my bed, but don’t think that I’m going to stand around and let you do whatever the fuck you want.

“Rule number three: I suspect, though I haven’t confirmed yet, that since this is my mind and my dream, I could probably lock you in a closet and force myself to wake up. So you might want to phrase things a little more politely when you deal with me. Is all that fucking clear, you asshole?”

Peter looks at him with a gleam in his eyes. “You do make an excellent alpha, Stiles. It seems I was right about that.”

Peter’s baiting him and Stiles knows it, so as much as he _aches_ to have an answer to that old question of his, if Peter had known he would be the alpha, he ignores it. “When I wake up, I’ll confirm that your daughter even _exists_ ,” he says, “and then I’ll see what I can find out about her current situation. Okay?”

“I suppose it will have to be,” Peter says, and Stiles again wakes up with a start.

“You okay?” Derek asks, glancing over at him.

“Yeah.” Stiles pushes a hand through his hair. He’s on the sofa with a book lying on his chest. “Weird dream. How long was I asleep?”

“Not long. Twenty minutes or so.” Derek sits down by his feet and rubs absently at Stiles’ calf. “It’s getting late, though. I’ll probably turn in soon.”

“I have a few things I want to do first,” Stiles says, and Derek nods and heads into the bedroom. Stiles hauls himself off the sofa and sits down in the study with his laptop. Lydia is there, muttering about coefficients, and Isaac is on his own laptop writing an essay for his history class, but they’re the only ones there.

He finds with some unease that he has less research to do than he would have thought. He knows Malia’s last name – Tate – and her date of birth, even though he can’t recall Peter having told him the latter. The answers are just in his head, like something he’s known all along. He opens up the website for the Beacon Hills Tribune and goes back to the birth announcements for that month and year, and there she is. Malia Tate. Since she was adopted out immediately, apparently her birth was listed under the last name of her adoptive parents.

“Huh,” he says, mostly to himself. The others glance at him but assume he’s working on homework, and don’t bother him.

He types her name into a Google search, not really expecting to find anything. He’s _certainly_ not expecting to find out that she’s been missing for the last eight years, after a car accident that killed her mother and sister. He rubs a hand over his head, wondering where she’s been for the last eight years, and how it’s related to what’s going on now.

The last thing he wants is to have to talk to dream!Peter again, so he takes a hot shower, drinks some green tea, and takes one of his Lunesta before he goes to bed. His sleep is blessedly normal.

In the morning, he shoots off an e-mail to his father. A car accident like that is something he thinks his father will remember. He sends out feelers to a number of his other contacts, wanting to know of any magical disturbances or warlocks he should be aware of. Then he leaves for school. He still hasn’t talked to the others about Peter – if it really is Peter – suddenly sharing headspace with him. That’s going to be a difficult conversation, and he doesn’t want to rush into it. Frankly, he might not tell anyone besides Derek. He hates letting the others see him when he’s vulnerable, though he’s gotten used to it over the years.

It’s his short day. Spanish is an hour-long class three times a week, from ten to eleven. After that he has his sociology course from eleven to twelve. Then he usually grabs lunch on campus before heading back to the apartment. He likes having the three short days and two long ones. It works well with what he needs to do for the pack.

This time, instead of going straight home, he finds a quiet place on campus where he won’t bother anyone and steels his nerves to call Dr. Deaton. “Stiles, what can I do for you?” the Druid asks, when he gets on the line.

“Have you got time for some weird questions about magic?” Stiles asks.

“My next patient isn’t for another twenty minutes. What’s on your mind?”

“Is it possible to call back a spirit from the great beyond?”

“A dead person, you mean?” Deaton asks. “It’s . . . possible. It’s also extremely _difficult_. It requires a very exact set of circumstances.”

“Could one of those circumstances involve using that person’s offspring?”

“Yes, that would be one of the simplest ways to do it,” Deaton says. “To use that person’s blood to do a summoning spell. Such a thing _might_ be able to reach into the hereafter, if the sorcerer was strong enough. I suppose I don’t need to tell you that this would be very, very dark magic. Even most warlocks would frown upon it.”

“Why? I mean, why is it worse than your average black magic?” Stiles asks.

“It’s never a good idea to start poking holes in the boundary between one world and the next,” Deaton says. “You never know what might happen.”

“You’re not wrong there,” Stiles mutters. “Let’s say that whoever did this spell only got about halfway there. Would that produce like . . . a ghost? Sort of a spirit wandering around?”

“It could.” Deaton sounds somewhat dubious. “You know as well as I do that the results of magic can be very unpredictable when done improperly. Stiles, why are you asking me these questions? Who, precisely, are you worried about having been called back from the dead?”

Stiles grimaces. “This is in confidence, okay?” he says, although he knows he really doesn’t need to. Deaton keeps his own counsel, for his own reasons, because he’s sort of a supernatural Switzerland. He doesn’t take sides. “I had a dream about Peter. He said someone was trying to call him back, but they didn’t give it enough juice, so now he’s like a shade, and he can only communicate with me because I took the alpha power from him. It gives us a metaphysical connection.”

“Well, that’s all accurate enough,” Deaton says, “but forgive me for saying so, you are known to have strange dreams.”

“Yeah. But he said some things . . . things I couldn’t have known. That turned out to be true. About someone using his daughter to call him back. I didn’t even know he _had_ a daughter.”

“Neither did I,” Deaton said. “Certainly not one still living herself. Given that, then yes, Stiles, it’s quite possible that the Peter you encountered in your dream was the soul of the actual Peter Hale.”

“Great.” Stiles sighs. “I think I was really hoping that the answer would be ‘nope, you’ve just permanently lost your marbles. It was bound to happen sooner or later . . .’” He rakes a hand through his hair. “So what’s the fix for this, doc?”

“Well, a standard exorcism should do the trick,” Deaton says.

“Awesome,” Stiles says. “I always wanted to be exorcised. I always wake up feeling like something’s missing in my life and thinking ‘you know what would be awesome? If I could be fucking exorcised’.”

Deaton doesn’t respond to Stiles’ melodrama. “I’m not very familiar with the process myself, and it isn’t the kind of thing you want to mess around with. Let me reach out to some people I know. I should be able to get some information for you. Don’t worry, I’ll keep your little . . . problem . . . a secret for now.”

“Thanks,” Stiles says. “In the meantime, I have to figure out who’s calling him back and why, so I’ll be keeping busy, trust me.”

They say their goodbyes and Stiles hangs up. He thinks about his next move and texts Derek. ‘you home or at your gallery?’

‘home,’ Derek replies a few minutes later. That’s good. He doesn’t have to wait for Mac; she has an evening class on Wednesdays and usually just kills time on campus until dinner. He has the Jeep today, so he gets in and drives home. As he had expected, the apartment is empty except for Derek. Most of the others will be at their classes all day. Erica is the lone exception, and she had a photo shoot.

“Hey,” he says, going into the room they’ve designated Derek’s studio, where he’s spattered with paint, and nestles right into a one-armed hug. “I’m going to make some banana bread, since the last of the bunch is pretty black and gross now. Clean up and then come keep me company?”

“Sure,” Derek says, wiping his hands on a cloth.

Stiles goes out to the kitchen and starts taking his mood out on some innocent, overripe bananas. He’s not a huge fan of banana bread, actually, but several members of the pack love it, and it makes a good, portable breakfast. He’s getting the rest of the ingredients together when Derek comes down the hallway from the next apartment, into the kitchen. “How were your classes?” he asks, hauling himself up to sit on the counter next to Stiles.

“Okay. Nothing exciting today.” Stiles starts measuring out butter and brown sugar. He knows that Derek can read his mood, that Derek is trying to give him space, but he feels strangely calm about this. He suspects it hasn’t sunk in yet, that the next time he’s confronted with dream!Peter as actual!Peter, he might have a freak out. But he’ll cross that bridge when he gets to it. “I had a weird dream last night. Or the night before last, actually.”

“Mm hm,” Derek says, leaning over to steal a lump of brown sugar.

“I dreamed about Peter,” Stiles says, and Derek goes still. He knows that Stiles dreams about Peter all the time, so if he’s mentioning it, something must be different. “I dreamed that he was in my head, asking for my help, because someone was using his daughter to try to summon him back from the dead.”

Now Derek frowns. “That _is_ a weird dream. Peter didn’t have a daughter.”

“Actually,” Stiles says, “he does. Did.” He takes a deep breath and relates the details of Malia’s birth and the subsequent research he did to confirm her existence. “Now, I sure as hell didn’t know any of that before yesterday, and I don’t think I’ve ever heard the name Malia Tate before. Which means . . .”

“That the Peter in the dream was really Peter,” Derek says, his tone cautious.

“That’s my theory, yeah.” Stiles is silent for a minute while he runs the mixer. “Because what my life really needed was a homicidal ghost chilling in my cerebral cortex.”

Derek grimaces. “We don’t _know_ that.”

“No, we don’t,” Stiles says, “but I ran it past Deaton and he said that it seemed possible. And it’s the only explanation I have for why I suddenly know about Malia. Deaton said I could probably be exorcised. Doesn’t that sound like a fun weekend?”

“Jesus,” Derek says, pushing both hands through his hair. “Is that what you want to do?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles says. “Well, I mean, _yes_ , because I don’t want the guy I murdered living in my brain, but . . . I want to find Malia first. What Peter said . . . he said not to make her suffer for his sins. It’s possible that she’s the one actually trying to summon him, or that someone is using her, or . . . there are a lot of possibilities. But I want to make sure that she’s okay.”

“All right,” Derek says. “How do we do that?”

“I’m waiting to hear back from a few people,” Stiles says. He finishes measuring out the ingredients and runs the mixer for several more minutes. Finally, he’s done with that, and scooping the mixture into the pans.

“Are you okay?” Derek asks.

“Actually, yes,” Stiles says. “Sadly, I’m at the point in my life where being able to talk to Peter Hale in my dreams actually doesn’t make that big a splash. I want him gone, that’s no lie, but I know he can’t hurt me there. So, you know. I’m handling it. For now. I’ll probably have an enormous freak-out about it later.” He lets out a breath. “Let’s not tell the others yet, okay? I don’t like worrying them.”

Derek frowns at him for a minute, then sighs and nods. “At least for now,” he says.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	2. Chapter 2

 

As it happens, Sheriff Stilinski is very familiar with the disappearance of Malia Tate. He says he even looked back into it after he had found out about the supernatural, thinking he might be able to solve it with more information, but never came up with anything concrete.

That’s a problem for Stiles, as far as locating Malia’s current whereabouts is concerned. He had figured she would have an address, a family, maybe a car or a boyfriend, something or someone that would get him more information. But Malia had vanished clean off the face of the earth eight years prior. How is he supposed to find her now?

He’s not surprised to find himself drawn right back into the same dream when he falls asleep that night. He steels himself to see Peter, and decides that this time, he’s in charge of the conversation, not Peter. Even in the dream, he feels like he’s on the verge of a panic attack. Now he knows that this is, to a certain extent, real. Real Peter Hale. The ghost of real Peter Hale, but still, real Peter, who terrorized him and left him in the trunk of a car to die. Real Peter, who he murdered with wolfsbane in Gerard Argent’s basement.

He gets his breathing under control with one of Gwen’s breathing exercises and then goes into the house. His hands are trembling just a little. Peter is leaning against the window, arms folded over his chest, but he doesn’t make demands this time.

“So,” Stiles says, “now that I’ve confirmed with a few people that I’m not going any more crazy than usual, I’ve looked up your daughter. And we have a problem.”

“What sort of a problem?” Peter asks, arching an eyebrow.

“Malia Tate disappeared eight years ago,” Stiles says, and Peter does look startled. “She was in a car accident. Her mother’s body was found, but not hers.”

Peter frowns at this. “I . . . didn’t know,” he says.

Stiles realizes that he just told Peter about the death of a woman that he had been at least moderately close to. “Yeah. Sorry.” He rubs a hand over his hair. “Was Malia a werewolf? Would she have healed?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” Peter says. He sees the look on Stiles’ face and continues, “With half-breeds, so to speak, sometimes it doesn’t start to manifest until puberty. So it’s possible that she was. Eight years ago? I suppose that would have been not long after the fire. I would have been in the hospital. And nobody besides Malia’s mothers – biological and adoptive – knew I was her father, so it would have been impossible to notify me. The adoption file was sealed.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “So we’re going to have to do some work to find her. Any suggestions?”

“Well, someone is trying to summon me, which means that I do feel a pull to a certain location,” Peter says. “Unfortunately, since I’m wedged inside your brain, that means I can’t follow it myself. But you could let me take control of your body long enough to follow the pull to where it’s leading me.”

“Ha ha ha ha _no_ ,” Stiles snaps.

Peter shrugs one shoulder. “It was just a suggestion.”

“It was a stupid suggestion,” Stiles says, “and it will happen over my literal dead body. Try to be constructive.”

Peter gives a put-upon sigh that’s _so_ reminiscent of the Peter Hale that Stiles remembers that he wants to hide under his bed and start crying. “Very well. There might be a magical means to locate her. Derek would be her cousin.”

“I can ask Dr. Deaton.” Stiles hesitates. “So . . . you’re inside my head. How much, uh, how much do you know?”

“I’m not precisely inside your head,” Peter says, matter-of-fact. “I’m not precisely anywhere. Think of it as . . .” He tilts his head to one side, obviously trying to figure out how to put it into words. “I’m somewhere very far away. All I have is a telephone, and the only one I can dial is you. Now, when we’re talking, like we are right now, your mind conjures up a suitable environment to host the conversation. Thus the house, the . . .” He gestures at himself. “Your brain is interpreting the input in this specific way.”

“Okay,” Stiles says. “So you can’t see what I see, and you can’t go rummaging around in my brain.”

“Correct,” Peter says, “although, the more times we speak, the stronger a connection we will forge, and eventually it will start to go both ways.”

“All the more reason to get this fucking taken care of,” Stiles says.

“I do appreciate your help,” Peter says.

“Okay, first of all, you can stop trying to pretend to be my freakin’ buddy,” Stiles says. “You’ve been dead for three years, not three hundred. I haven’t forgotten who you are or what you’re capable of. As soon as I’ve figured out how to get Malia out of danger, you’re _gone_ , do you understand that? I just don’t want any other people to suffer because of the things you’ve done.”

Something like sorrow flickers over Peter’s face. “I made mistakes,” he says, “and I paid for them. I’m not that man anymore.”

“Yeah, that’s exactly what _that man_ would say,” Stiles says. “Do you think I’m a fucking idiot?”

“You know, you’re very angry at me, and I’m not precisely sure you have the right,” Peter says. “I’d like to remind you that _you_ killed _me_. So if one of us is going to feel wronged here, I do believe that it should be me. Now, I’m not holding a grudge, so perhaps you shouldn’t either, especially given that I’m not even sure what you’re angry about.”

Stiles’ hands clench into fists at his sides. He thinks of fifteen different rational responses to make, a large number of which involving waking up and ending this entire conversation. What comes out is a choked, “ _You left me._ ”

Peter blinks. “Beg pardon?” he asks. He looks honestly bewildered.

“That night. In the forest.” Stiles knows he should stop, but he can’t help it. He’s never even dreamed about having the opportunity to confront Peter over this. “You put me in the trunk of that car and you _left me there to die_.”

“Well, that wasn’t my intention,” Peter says, with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. “It’s not precisely my fault that I got shot and captured – ”

“It is your fault, you sick son of a bitch, it’s entirely your fault,” Stiles bites out. “You went to that house and you killed Kate and you could have stopped there but you didn’t. You went after Allison, and _that’s_ why you fucking got shot and had to run. I was in the trunk of your car for _two fucking days_ , you asshole, do you have any idea what that’s like?”

Peter grimaces slightly. “That’s . . . unfortunate,” he murmurs.

“I still dream about the way you laughed at me before you left me there, and I still can’t use fucking elevators without having panic attacks, so yeah, I killed you to save my friends and you can be as pissed about that as you want, but you can also shut the fuck up about my so-called unwarranted grudge against you.” Stiles forces himself to take a deep breath. “Don’t try to be my friend, Peter. I’m okay with helping Malia, but I have zero interest in helping you.”

“I understand,” Peter says. He clears his throat. “For the record, it wasn’t my intention for that to happen to you.”

“I never figured it was, asshole, but I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have just wandered into that car trunk on my own, so it’s still pretty much your fault.”

Peter lifts his hands in surrender. “Malia,” he says.

“Right. I’ll ask Deaton if we can use Derek to do some sort of location spell. I can also ask him if he can find anyone who’s doing black magic in or around Beacon Hills. He’s done that before.”

“I tended to avoid sorcerers as much as possible, back when I was alive. Have you dealt with them before?” Peter asks, with keen interest.

“None of your business,” Stiles says. “If you’ve got any other ideas on how to find Malia, speak now or forever keep your cakehole shut.”

“I’m out of ideas for the moment,” Peter says, “but I’ll let you know if I think of anything.”

“Can you only talk to me when I’m asleep?” Stiles asks.

“More like, you can only hear me when you’re asleep,” Peter says. “There’s too much occupying your mind when you’re awake for my voice to get through. It’s possible that you could reach me when you were awake, if you focused or meditated.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Stiles says, although talking to Peter, awake or asleep, isn’t really something on his agenda. “Now go away, so I can get some actual sleep.”

The dream abruptly goes fuzzy and dissolves around him, and other things start to intrude and it becomes more like a normal dream. He doesn’t remember any of it in the morning, but when he wakes up, his cheek is damp, like he was crying in his sleep.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Keeping things from the pack is going to be a little more complicated than anticipated, simply because he’s clearly going to have to go back to Beacon Hills if he wants this taken care of. They go back about one weekend a month, but had just gone the previous weekend. Spring break is a week away, so he’ll be back then, but he wants this taken care of sooner rather than later. The full moon is over spring break, which he appreciates. He’s always happy to get the chance to run around like an idiot during the full moon.

There’s always reasons he might have to go back, other things that might be going on, but he’s loath to actually lie to them. So in the end, he tells them a modified version of the truth. A young woman has disappeared, his father thinks there might be supernatural influences, and has asked him to look over the case. Most of them are busy enough with their own lives that they don’t question him too much.

Derek goes back with him, because of course he does, and Erica wants to but she has an audition that weekend that she can’t miss. So it’s just the two of them, which is how Stiles wants it. He hasn’t mentioned Peter’s involvement to his father, either, and he’s guessing that he’s going to get a stern talking-to when/if he finds out.

They leave after his Friday classes and a quick lunch. Deaton is at his day job, so there isn’t much they can do until he finishes up for the day. Stiles stops in to see his father and goes over Malia’s disappearance with him.

“Gotta admit, this one always bothered me,” Tom says, frowning at the file. “Why are you suddenly asking about it?”

“Uh, a friend brought her up,” Stiles says, and his father gives him a suspicious look. “Apparently they think someone’s using her to do some dark magic or something.” Since the suspicious look isn’t going away, he adds, “It’s, uh, it’s in confidence. Sorry.”

“Uh huh.” Tom doesn’t seem impressed, but he apparently decides not to press the issue. “Well, let me know what you find out.”

“Okay,” Stiles says. “Hey, you’ll be home for dinner, right?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” his father says, giving him another bear hug. Stiles knows that his father’s diet isn’t something he needs to worry about as much anymore. He knows that Tom is spending a lot of evenings and nights over with Melissa McCall, who he’s sure is appropriately policing his curly fry intake. But still, when he’s home, making his father dinner is something he always wants to do.

“Ms. McCall should come over too,” he says, though, since he knows that his father is a lot happier since he and Melissa got together.

“She’s working swing today,” Tom says.

“Tomorrow, then,” Stiles says, and waves as he leaves the station.

“So,” Derek says, as they get back in the Jeep. “What do you think about this coyote that Malia’s dad – or adoptive dad, I suppose – is obsessed with.”

“I dunno,” Stiles says, chewing on that. “I can see why my dad never quite let this one go. It’s fucking weird, even for Beacon Hills.”

Derek agrees. They run to the grocery store, since Sheriff Stilinski probably doesn’t have anything in his refrigerator, and then head to Dr. Deaton’s office. He’s just finishing up with patients, and they wind up waiting about half an hour and making friends with an overly enthusiastic Boxer.

“So, first things first,” Stiles says, “we thought maybe we could use Derek to try to locate Malia.”

“That might be possible,” Deaton says, with his usual noncommittal tone. “But it might not be. Blood ties are important, but strongest from parent to child, or between siblings. Cousins is a much weaker bond. Add to that the fact that Derek never met Malia, never even knew she existed until this week, and it becomes a much dicier prospect.”

“Well, let’s give it a whirl,” Stiles says, because he’s learned over the years that Deaton just has to give everything caveats and addendums.

Deaton nods, and ushers them down into his workshop. Stiles goes a little tense, because he always does, and reminders of Peter and the days in the trunk of his car are never good for his claustrophobia. But he keeps himself put together as Deaton takes out a map and a crystal and a pin. He threads the crystal onto a cord and then pricks Derek’s finger with the pin, squeezing a drop of blood onto the crystal.

Stiles watches in interest as Deaton suspends the crystal over the map and closes his eyes. It begins to sway, very gently, and then move in a slow circle. Several minutes that feel like an eternity go by, before Deaton opens his eyes and says, “I’m sorry. No reaction.”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean that the spell itself was faulty, though, right?” Stiles asks. “She could be behind some sort of magical barrier. She might not even be in Beacon Hills.”

“Yes to the former, no to the latter,” Deaton says. “If she weren’t in a place present on the map, the crystal would have at least indicated a direction. But it is possible that she might be screened from magic. Anyone who’s powerful enough to attempt a spirit resurrection could certainly manage that much.”

Stiles sighs. “Okay. So what about just isolating corners of black magic in general? You did that once before, when Sebastian Stone was in town.”

“Certainly,” Deaton says. “It’s a time-consuming spell, however. It would take me several hours.”

“Well, we’re not going anywhere,” Stiles says, then adds, “Oh, uh, if you don’t mind doing it, that is. I’m not, like, saying you have to.”

Deaton gives him a somewhat amused smile. “It’s no problem, Stiles. If someone is using black magic, it’s my duty to know about it. Why don’t you go and get yourselves something to eat? I’ll call you when I’ve completed the spell.”

“Okay,” Stiles says. “Thanks.”

He and Derek go back to the house. He makes a salad and cooks some chicken and rice and they have dinner with his father. Tom is still obviously restraining himself from asking questions about the Malia situation. He might not be doing it with much grace, but he’s doing it.

It’s past nine when Deaton calls, and they had back to his clinic. He has a map spread out on one of the exam tables. “Okay,” he says, “I’ve isolated eleven possible locations.”

“Eleven?” Stiles is startled. “Last time you did this, there were only three or four. I figured there would be fewer, not more.”

“Well, the spell only looks for consolidations of magical energy, interruptions to the typical flow of power in and out of Beacon Hills,” Deaton says. “It doesn’t look for dark magic specifically. There is no line where magic becomes dark. It’s more about the caster’s intentions than anything else. And Beacon Hills has attracted a lot of practitioners in the past few years. It’s known to be a safe place, and has a lot of inherent power because of the ley lines.”

“Right, right,” Stiles says. “Okay. Eleven.”

“It was actually twenty-three,” Deaton adds, with a calm smile, “but I eliminated those that I knew to be friendly. This is what we’re left with.”

Stiles nods and leans over the map. “We’ll start at the outskirts and work inward,” he decides. “I assume that it’d be difficult to hide a kidnapped girl and work dark magic in the middle of the city. Not impossible, just less likely.”

Deaton nods. “I can accompany you, if you like.”

“Jesus, I’d appreciate that,” Stiles says. “I’m not sure what I’m getting into, and – last time I did this, I was looking for that voodoo doll of Derek. I had a, a connection to the place. I won’t have that this time, so we’re going to have to check out each individual location. It’d be a lot easier to say ‘heyyo, your friendly Druid inspector calling’.”

This amuses Deaton, and he gets into Stiles’ Jeep without complaint. Stiles has some equipment in the back, like his chain mail and his baseball bat, but at the moment he’s traveling light.

They start at the location furthest out of town, and work their way inwards in a spiral pattern. The first is a stone circle in the woods where magic has obviously been done recently. Nobody is there now, and Derek says he can’t smell anybody nearby. The second is a hotel just outside the city limits. Deaton is able to ascertain that the owners are using some sort of magic to attract customers. “Not exactly ethical,” he says dryly, “but not something that’s an immediate problem.”

The third location is a house and an extremely defensive witch, and having Deaton there is quite helpful, as he’s able to assure her that he’s just checking locations around the city in an attempt to find a missing girl. The fourth is an old frat house where some guys live that gives Stiles an immediate feeling of badwrong, and Deaton seems to sense it, too. He says he’ll look into it later.

After their fifth try, Deaton gets a call on his cell phone. “I’m sorry,” he says, “one of my patients who just had surgery yesterday is having some bad swelling in her leg. I need to see her and make sure everything is all right. Do you want to wait for me?”

“Nah, we’ll keep moving,” Stiles says. “Text me when you’re done, and we’ll see where we are.”

Deaton nods and Stiles drops him off back at the clinic, so he can pick up his car. Stiles keeps driving. The next two locations seem unlikely for a variety of reasons, and then they wind up at a residential house. It’s far enough away from their neighbors that they could fairly easily smuggle someone in or out, and it’s the last location they’ve got before they head into downtown.

There are lights on inside, and a car in the driveway, so the place is hardly abandoned. Stiles chews on his lower lip and wonders if there’s any way at all that he can walk up to the front door and say ‘hey, mind if we check for kidnapped minors in your basement’ without getting killed. He’s quiet so long that Derek says, “Do you want to wait for Deaton?”

Stiles doesn’t. He’d gotten a text about ten minutes previous, saying that the dog Deaton was seeing needed x-rays to check for a hairline fracture and it could be a while. It’s past midnight and if this location isn’t it, there are still several more to check. He wants to get done before the break of dawn. “I was just wondering,” he says, “if Peter would know.”

Derek gives him a sideways glance. “You mean, if he would be able to tell if this was where he had been summoned?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “He said I might be able to talk to him without being asleep if I could focus well enough.”

After a moment, Derek lets out a breath. “Do you want to give that a try?”

“I guess we’ve got nothing else to do besides wait for Deaton, so I might as well,” Stiles says. He decides to get out of the car, so he can have some fresh air. It’s a chilly night, the kind that borders between late winter and early spring. He can see his breath. He sits on the hood of the Jeep and folds his legs underneath himself.

He knows how to meditate. It’s one of the many things Gwen has taught him, to help control his anxiety. So he sits and does one of his meditation exercises, focuses on feeling individual parts of his body, blocking out external stimuli. When he feels calm and centered, he focuses on the image of Peter’s face and directs it as a question into the ether, visualizing the message going out from the center of his forehead, where his third eye would be. _Peter?_

Abruptly, he can see Peter is standing in the forest next to him. He looks a little surprised. “That was quite loud, actually.”

Stiles doesn’t open his eyes, focusing on the internal vision that he’s built up that includes Peter in it. “We’ve isolated some places in Beacon Hills that have consolidations of magical power. Now we’re trying to narrow it down. If this was where you had been summoned to, do you think you would know?”

“Probably,” Peter says, looking around pensively. “Nothing feels different, though.”

“Okay,” Stiles says. “I guess I’ll take that as a temporary answer.”

He opens his eyes, and Peter is gone. When he gets back in the Jeep, Derek gives him a questioning look. “Peter says he doesn’t think this is the place,” he says. “Let’s keep it in mind but move on to the next one.”

Derek nods, and they head downtown. The next location is an abandoned, empty apartment building. They search it thoroughly, but find nothing, and Derek says that as far as he can tell, nobody has been there in a while. Stiles doesn’t want to talk to Peter if he doesn’t have to, so they head for the next location. It turns out to be a closed bank.

“Now this would be a good place to keep someone,” he murmurs. “I’m sure the walls are thick enough that nobody would hear if someone screamed for help.”

Derek nods as they circle the building. The front door is chained and padlocked shut, but he says, “People have been in and out lately. Two, maybe three of them. And I can smell fast food. They might be living here.”

Stiles considers, then says, “Let’s see what Peter thinks.”

Making the connection is much easier, much faster this time, which is somewhat disconcerting. He simply sits down, visualizes the message again, and Peter appears. The ghost shivers and looks up at the bank in the mental landscape and says, “Yes. This feels distinctly . . . . it has a pull to it. Difficult to put into words.”

“Okay then,” Stiles says, opening his eyes. He takes out his phone and does a quick Google search. The bank has been closed for over a year, following a costly robbery that had raised questions about their security. “Might as well get the lay of the land,” he says, and shrugs out of his jacket so he can put his chain mail on.

Derek is frowning at him. “You’re sure you want to do this now?”

“Well, I sure as hell don’t want to do it in daylight,” Stiles says, “and I don’t want to be up until dawn tomorrow night, because I have to drive back to San Francisco on Sunday or risk missing my midterms. So it’s basically now or never. We can at least check out what’s inside, see if it’s something we can deal with.”

Derek nods. Stiles goes into the back of the Jeep for the toolkit he keeps there, and takes out a set of bolt cutters. A minute later, they’ve eased their way into the bank. It’s a large building, made mostly of marble, with a staircase on each side of the main lobby and a balcony that overlooks it. “Jesus,” Stiles mutters. “A little ostentatious, isn’t it? This isn’t fucking Switzerland.”

The place is coated in dust, but he sees a trail where it’s been disturbed by footsteps. He gestures for Derek to follow him, but Derek, of course, goes first. Stiles nods and allows this, as Derek prowls down the hallway, silent. He doesn’t hear or see anything. The place seems to be empty.

Derek’s head suddenly goes up, and he scents the air cautiously. “I think I smell her,” he murmurs, and turns down another hallway although the majority of the footsteps go straight, across the balcony. They wind up at the door to a medium-sized vault. It’s open, and he can see inside, see the steel walls and the safety deposit boxes lining the back wall.

None of that really matters, because in the middle of the room there’s a girl. She’s a teenager, with dark brown hair that’s almost to her waist, matted and tangled. She’s dressed in old sweatpants and a T-shirt, and her head jerks up as they appear in the doorway.

“Malia?” It’s Derek who speaks, hurrying over the edge of the vault door and into the room. Stiles hangs back, letting him do that while he examines the girl and her surroundings. There’s a black circle that’s been carved into the floor around her, surrounded by symbols that he doesn’t recognize. “Are you okay?”

The girl stares at him blankly for a moment, but when he comes within arm’s reach, she screams suddenly and throws herself at the circle. There’s a flash of blue-white light, and she tumbles backwards.

“Whoa!” Derek says. “Hey, Malia, it’s okay, we’re here to help – ”

She screams again and starts clawing at the invisible wall, sparks flying off the claws – and she definitely has claws, so that answers the question of whether or not she’s a shifter. But she doesn’t seem to understand anything that Derek is saying. “Hey, settle down, be quiet,” Derek says, in a hushed voice, looking nervously over his shoulder. “You’re going to attract attention – ”

Since it isn’t working, Stiles whips out his phone and takes a few pictures of the spell. Before he can decide on their next move, he hears footsteps, heavy boots pounding down the hallway. They’re coming from the direction of the way out, so there’s no way they can just avoid them. Derek snarls, getting to his feet and pushing Stiles behind him.

Two men and a woman appear in the vault door. They do something of a double take when they see Derek and Stiles; he presumes that’s because they were expecting Peter. They’re all armed, but differently. The woman has a staff with runes carved into it. One of the men has a gun, and the other has what looks like a rapier from the French middle ages.

“Hey, whoa, no need for violence,” Stiles says, putting his hands up and edging around Derek. That’s probably untrue, but it’ll buy him a few seconds of time.

“Who the hell are you?” the man with the gun asks.

Stiles lets the crimson shine seep into his eyes. “The boy in red. And you’re on my territory.”

“Well, this doesn’t have anything to do with you,” the man retorts.

Stiles considers that. “I’m sorry, but I feel like you don’t understand what the phrase ‘you’re on my territory’ means. Technically, everything that happens here is my business. Especially when it involves magic spells and imprisoned girls.” He jerks his head towards Malia. “Who is she?”

“She’s the daughter of a friend.” It’s the woman who speaks, taking a step forward. “We’re keeping an eye on her for him.”

“Really? He needs to vet his baby-sitting services more carefully, in that case.” Stiles considers for a long minute. He can’t get Malia out of the spell himself, and he doubts they’ll agree to let him wait around until Deaton shows up. “Okay, guys, you’re not from around here – clearly – so this is how this is going to work. You’re going to let the girl out of that circle you’ve got her in. Then I’m going to take her and walk out of here. You’re going to leave my territory and never come back, and we all end up winners.”

The two men laugh. The woman doesn’t. She gives Stiles a look and says, “Why do you think any of that is going to happen?”

Stiles considers for a moment, then says, “Gerard Argent. Sebastian Stone. Kali Steele. Deucalion. People who trespass on my territory get one warning. You’ve just had yours. My guess is, you heard I was off at college and figured you’d come use Beacon Hills’ mojo to get your shit done. Well, Beacon Hills is closed for business. Get gone.”

“We’ll leave your territory,” the woman says, “but we’re taking the girl.”

Stiles makes a noise like a game show buzzer. “Wrong answer.”

“Her father has something that belongs to us,” the woman says. “We have every right to hold her until he shows up.”

Stiles doesn’t want to give away that he knows exactly who the girl is, or that he’s been in contact with Peter’s spirit. He’s not even sure that these people know Peter is dead. He would think so, but rumors in the supernatural world can be nebulous, and aren’t always to be trusted. “That still sounds like the wrong answer.”

“Well, then, we’re at a bit of an impasse,” the woman says. “I’m not letting her out of that circle, and you can’t make me. If this comes to a brawl, in an enclosed room like this, odds are good that a lot of people will get hurt. Including you, and including her.”

Stiles knows she’s right, which means that retreat is really the only option they have. He decides that discretion is the better part of valor. He doesn’t like backing down, but then again, if these people decide he’s weak, or a fool, that could serve him an advantage later. “Fine,” he says. “You have until sunrise to get off my territory.”

“Agreed,” the woman says. She gestures with her staff for the two men to stand back and let him pass. They do. Derek’s growl buzzes low as he keeps close to Stiles as they leave. One of the men follows them downstairs and out of the bank’s front door. He closes it behind them, and although he can’t hear it lock, he’s sure somehow that it did.

“Now what?” Derek asks.

“I’m not one hundred percent sure,” Stiles says. “I need to talk to Deaton . . . and to Peter.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, am I enjoying having Stiles and Peter in the same metaphorical room. =D

 

Stiles isn’t eager to talk to Peter, particularly not after he calls Deaton, who says the spell is clearly keyed to bloodlines, and therefore can only be opened if Peter himself is present to make a donation. He could break it, he thinks, but it’s been infused with enough power that he would likely level the building trying to do so.

He lies down in the back of his Jeep, closes his eyes, and pictures the vault and the girl in his mind with as much detail as he can. Then he says, _Peter_ , and sends the message into the ether.

Peter appears a moment later. His voice is tight and angry. “So you backed down.”

“I made a strategic retreat.” Stiles doesn’t bother getting pissed off at Peter’s tone. He gestures towards the mental image of Malia and says, “Is that her?”

“I believe so,” Peter replies. “It has, of course, been a long time. And she was much younger the last time I saw her. But yes, I do believe that’s my daughter.” He examines the spell on the floor. “You weren’t able to break that?”

“No.” Stiles doesn’t give details. The last thing he wants is Peter thinking that he’ll need to be physically present in order to get Malia released. He doesn’t even know how the werewolf would react to that. “Dr. Deaton, if you remember him, says he’s not sure he can either. We’ll have to get the people holding her to release her from it. They said you have something of theirs.”

Peter gives a slight turn to look at the mental images that Stiles has of the three people inside the bank. He shakes his head. “I don’t recognize them. Did you get names?”

“No. They weren’t particularly friendly.”

There’s a pause while Peter gives them another look. “I don’t know what they want.”

“Okay.” Stiles chews his lower lip. “Okay. Then we’ll have to take them in transit. That’s when they’ll be most vulnerable. They won’t be able to have Malia in a circle like that while they’re moving her, and they’ve agreed to leave my territory by sunrise.”

“They just . . . agreed to that?” Peter seems skeptical.

“Yes, they did.”

“Why?”

“Because I asked nicely,” Stiles says. He looks over at Peter and says, “You really don’t have any idea who I am, do you.”

“I’ve been out of the loop,” Peter says. “It comes from being dead.”

Stiles nods a little. “You remember how I . . .” He lets out a breath. “How I told you, before you died, that I would destroy anyone who hurt my pack or my family?”

“Quite well,” Peter says.

“I kept my word.”

Peter tilts his head a little and gives Stiles a little smile. “Well, then. I’ll defer to your vast experience.”

Stiles flips him off, and then Peter’s gone, and he opens his eyes. Deaton has arrived while he was meditating, and he tells both him and Derek the plan. They’re both in agreement, so he calls his father and Chris Argent, because he’s a big fan of overkill. He doesn’t want to take any chances; he wants to get this done so he can be back in San Francisco before lunch on Sunday.

His father greets him with folded arms and a five-hundred-percent-done look. Stiles gives him an innocent smile, and all it gets him is a scowl. “You wanna tell me what’s going on?” Tom asks.

“At this point, yes, I do,” Stiles says. He pulls up the picture on his phone and shows it to his father and Chris. “This is Malia. She’s being held captive in that bank vault,” he adds, pointing to the building down the street. He sees his father frown and opens his mouth, and hurriedly continues. “They can’t get anywhere, don’t worry. There’s only two doors, and Derek’s watching the back for us.”

“Okay,” Tom says slowly.

“See this circle around her? We can’t break it. But they’ve agreed to get off my territory, which means that they’re going to have to take her out of it. We’re going to wait until they leave, and ambush them once they’re in transit.”

“What are we looking at?” Chris asks.

“Three sorcerers, all of them probably powerful,” Stiles says. “Dr. Deaton has graciously offered to help nullify any magic they want to cast, which should allow us some limited protection. I care less about what happens to them and more about securing Malia’s safety.”

“Right. Because you know her so well, what with having never heard of her before two days ago,” Tom says, giving Stiles a look.

“Hey, I don’t need to be best buddies with someone to want to protect them,” Stiles protests. “But, since you bring it up, no, I don’t know her. She’s being held captive because her father has something that these people want. Yes, her father is a werewolf. When he realized she was being held on my territory, he came to me for help.” That’s close enough to the truth that it doesn’t raise any eyebrows. At least, not from Chris.

Sheriff Stilinski, however, is frowning. “You’re not talking about the man who raised her, are you. Because he’s been living here in Beacon Hills for years.”

“No,” Stiles says, “I’m talking about her biological father. He wasn’t involved with her, and didn’t even know she was missing, until these sorcerers used magic to summon him. Or at least tried to.”

“And you’re not going to tell us who that is,” Tom says.

Stiles lets out a breath. “He has a history with certain parties, and requested I keep him anonymous. I agreed to help him because his daughter doesn’t deserve to suffer for who her father is.”

Tom and Chris exchange a glance. Then they both nod. “Okay,” Chris says, and starts talking about covering escape routes and the sort of tactical stuff he’s good at. Stiles does as he’s told. It’s always easier to let Chris take the reins during an operation like this.

But in the end, it doesn’t come to anything. He stays in his designated spot, keeps his eyes open, watches for texts or signals from the others, but nothing happens. When the sun rises, nobody has come or gone out of any of the bank’s exits. He calls Derek, who’s been watching the back exit. He knows there hasn’t been any action there, or he would have been called, but he wants to check in with him.

“I can’t hear them inside anymore,” Derek says, as soon as he picks up. “They left a few minutes ago.”

“Shit.” Stiles heads for the front entrance. Derek joins them there, and they head inside. The place is completely empty. When he gets to the vault, the circle on the floor is gone. He shivers a little. It’s cold inside, colder than it had been earlier. There hadn’t been any heat in the place, but the stone walls had protected it some from the environment. He can see his breath now.

Once they’ve all gathered outside, he says to Deaton, “So on a scale of one to ten, how difficult is it to teleport somewhere with a sixteen year old girl?”

“Less than you might think,” Deaton says. “Opening pathways from one place to a place that you know well is actually simpler than it seems. I’m sorry; it should have occurred to me that they might leave that way.”

Stiles sighs. “Well, we might as well search the place. If we can find a fingerprint, a hair, an anything, we might be able to track them down again.”

Chris frowns. “Before we waste a bunch of time doing that. Shouldn’t we be able to magically locate her using her father? I mean, if they’re summoning him, it’s because he has a blood tie to her. We can reverse that.”

“Her father isn’t . . . physically available,” Stiles says.

Chris’ frown deepens, and now Tom is glowering, too. “He should damned well make himself available, if his daughter’s life is in jeopardy,” the hunter says.

Stiles rubs a hand over his face and throws in the towel. They’re going to find out sooner rather than later, especially if they keep asking intelligent questions that they have every right to ask. And he’ll probably get in less trouble with his father if he comes clean. “Malia’s father is Peter Hale,” he says.

Tom blinks. Chris’ mouth opens slightly, and stays that way.

“Wait, what?” the sheriff asks, after a few moments pass.

“A long time before Peter Hale ran into any of us, he had a short affair that resulted in Malia, who was then adopted by the Tate family,” Stiles says. “By the time of the car accident, Peter was in the hospital, catatonic. He was never notified of her disappearance. Now he’s dead, and these people are using Malia to attempt to summon him. Only the spell didn’t really work out. He got stuck about halfway, so he’s basically a ghost, and since he has a psychic connection with me because I took his alpha power, he’s been able to talk to me, and tell me what’s going on.” He says all of this very fast, hoping if he skims by it, nobody will notice how freaked out he is.

“They just . . . summoned him. Back from the dead.” Tom’s voice is flat. “That’s a thing you can do.”

Deaton clears his throat quietly. “It’s a very difficult spell.”

“So you’re being _haunted_ by Peter Hale,” Chris says to Stiles.

“Uh, well, sort of, not really?” Stiles says. “He can only talk to me when I’m asleep, or if I’m meditating and focus on, you know, wanting to talk to him. It’s not like he’s floating over my shoulder.”

“So you talked to Peter Hale.” Chris seems to be pondering this. “How’d that go?”

“Better than it could have,” Stiles says. “We basically agreed to, you know, let bygones be bygones. No grudges held on either part. For Malia’s sake.”

“I don’t like this,” Tom says. “You’re bound to feel responsible for her safety because you’re the one who killed Peter, but kid, it doesn’t _work_ like that – ”

“I know that, Dad, really, I do,” Stiles says. “I mean, yes, I feel that way, at least a little. I won’t deny that. But it’s also, I just don’t think she should suffer because of who her father is. She doesn’t even _know_ him. It doesn’t seem right.”

Tom sighs. “Okay. At least for now. But I don’t suppose Peter can tell us anything useful about the people who are holding her hostage?”

“He doesn’t recognize them,” Stiles says. He sees the skeptical look on his father’s face and says, “Look, a guy like Peter Hale probably pissed off a lot of people in his life. He said he had a tendency to avoid sorcerers when he could.” One more way he and Peter are alike. “Anyway, they said Peter had something of theirs. Now, it’s one hundred percent possible that they’re just making shit up. Maybe he does, maybe he doesn’t. My guess is that he has something – _had_ something – that they want, but that the provenance of that object could very much be called into question. Either way, I’m not about to hand anything over to someone who thinks that kidnapping an innocent girl is the way to get what they want.”

“Must be valuable, to call a guy back from the dead,” Chris says.

“I doubt they realize he’s dead.” Deaton speaks up, folding his hands behind his back. “Most sorcerers, even warlocks, wouldn’t dare mess around with that level of spell. And that would explain the reaction of the spell, too, that it didn’t bring Peter directly to them.”

“How could they not know?” Derek asks. “It was kind of a big deal.”

“Yes,” Deaton says, “and no. Amongst werewolf culture, yes, it was. But to the general supernatural world, the details of what happened in Beacon Hills that year were never really made known. Everyone knows a werewolf killed Laura Hale, and then Stiles killed him. But not everyone knows the identity of that particular werewolf. And there are a lot of reasons that people can be out of the loop. Your sister knew nothing of Stiles when she arrived here, or of what had happened to Peter.”

Derek grimaces, but nods. “Okay. So they’ll probably keep trying to summon him.”

“And it will keep getting them nowhere,” Stiles says. “But we can send in a ‘representative’ – say Peter sent someone to find out who they are and what they wanted. That will get us some info, buy us some time, _and_ let us get an inside look at whatever their new digs are.”

“If we can find them,” Chris says, and Stiles sighs and nods. “Okay. Let’s get to work.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

An hour long search of the bank didn’t come up with much useful. There were some strange scorch marks on the floor, and Deaton said a lot of magic had been done there recently, although Stiles supposed that they had already known that. The spell on the floor is gone, which annoys him some, because he hadn’t gotten very good pictures of it, and he had wanted to know if there was any sort of trap laid into it.

“Something was clearly wrong with her, with Malia,” he says, as they’re sitting around breakfast at a nearby diner. Despite the sleepless night, he feels fairly perky. He’s never had a problem going a night or two with little sleep. Derek is yawning and drinking his third mug of coffee as he sketches a picture of the woman in the vault. “Like, we tried to talk to her, but she was just like . . .” He flails for a moment to demonstrate.

“We tried to reassure her,” Derek says, nodding. “She didn’t seem verbal.”

“She had claws, though,” Stiles says. “Which answers the question of whether or not she inherited any of Peter’s wolfy powers.”

Derek looks up at this, and shakes his head. “No. She didn’t smell like a werewolf. I mean, she smelled like a shifter, but . . . not a wolf.”

Sheriff Stilinski jerks in his seat. “A coyote?” he asks.

“What?” Chris blinks around the table.

“Malia’s adopted father was convinced that there was a coyote stalking his house, that it was somehow responsible for the accident,” Tom says. He sees the faint frown on Chris’ face, and waves it aside. “He’s got some issues, we don’t need to deal with him right now. But what if Malia is the coyote? What if she somehow got locked into that form?”

“That could happen,” Deaton says. “Trauma, loss – if that was the first time she shifted, with no understanding of what had happened – yes, it could definitely happen.”

“So Peter fucked a coyote lady?” Stiles says. “He didn’t mention that.”

“Maybe he didn’t know?” Tom says.

“He would know,” Derek says. “He’d be able to smell it. But I definitely wouldn’t put it past him to have had sex with a coyote lady.”

“Well, if she spent the last eight years or so as a coyote, that would probably explain why she wasn’t thrilled to be rescued by random strangers,” Stiles says. He grimaces a little and says, “So getting through to her won’t be easy. But I guess we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.” He wonders briefly how one goes about rehabilitating someone who’s spent years locked into their shifted form. “Is there any sort of, uh, precedent for this? For someone going . . . feral, like that?”

Derek glances over at him. “I’ve heard rumors, wolves who lost their way back to their human selves, but . . . nothing solid.”

“Great. One more thing to research.” He shakes his head. “First things first. Let’s see if we can identify who’s holding her. They might not be part of werewolf culture, but they’re clearly supernatural. Someone might recognize them.”

“On it.” Derek holds up his sketchbook, which he’s been working in while they ate. He’s drawn a good picture of the woman, and two rougher pictures of the men. Stiles snaps a photo with his phone, then takes out his laptop and starts emailing everyone he knows. Surely somebody will be able to identify them.

While they’re waiting on that, and Deaton is seeing if he can track them down using any sort of magical means, Stiles decides to do his homework. He settles back down at the house, spreads out his textbooks, and promptly falls asleep. He finds himself yet again at the Hale house, and Peter is waiting for him.

“Did you make me fall asleep?” he asks suspiciously.

“I don’t think I can do that,” Peter replies.

“Oh. Good. What do you want?”

“To check in with you.”

“Jesus Christ, Peter,” Stiles says. “It’s been like two hours since the last time we talked.” He had done some meditating before breakfast, so he could give Peter a brief update on the situation and let him know that the ‘take them in transit’ plan hadn’t worked out. “Exactly how quickly do you think I can do this sort of thing?”

“I thought you were in a rush to get back to your normal life,” Peter snarks right back.

Stiles scrubs both hands through his hair. “This isn’t that fucking easy, okay? Deaton’s tracking the magic, and I’ve reached out to my contacts to see if any of them know who these people are.”

“What contacts?” Peter asks.

“Contacts,” Stiles says. “You know. People I know.”

Peter gives him a look. “In case you missed it,” he says, “I don’t actually know much about what’s happened in your life for the past three years. Obviously, you’ve held onto the position of alpha, and apparently you’ve had some dealings with sorcerers, but you can’t just say ‘contacts’ and expect me to be satisfied with that answer.”

“Well, actually, I can expect you to be satisfied with whatever God damned answer I feel like giving you,” Stiles says, “since I’m in charge of this operation, and you’d be able to help Malia yourself if you weren’t dead. Which isn’t exactly my fault, even if I’m the one who pulled the metaphorical trigger. Unfortunately, with Kate and Gerard both dead, they can’t exactly take responsibility for this.”

“Mm.” Peter regards him for a moment. “Gerard is dead? How?”

“Cancer.” Stiles sees Peter’s lip curl. “Yeah, you knew that, didn’t you. He tried to get you to give him the Bite.”

Peter nods a little. “I won’t say there are times I wasn’t tempted, given . . . the methods he employed. I knew that as soon as I did it, he would kill me and become an alpha. And then there was you.”

“Yeah.” Stiles heaves a sigh. He supposes he can’t blame Peter for wanting to know what happened. “After you died, Gerard got arrested. Primarily for trying to kill my father, but also because he killed an omega in the woods, which my father got on film. He tried to plead for clemency, given his terminal illness, but didn’t get any. He went straight to prison and died alone and unloved. The end.”

Peter’s mouth quirks into a smile. “Seems like that was just the beginning,” he says.

“For me, yeah,” Stiles says.

“What contacts?” Peter asks again.

Stiles gives him a look, then sighs. “Okay. Let’s see who you know on this list. This is who I sent Derek’s sketches to. Ravinder Chandrasekhar. Kendra Steele. Rebekah Cheyenne. Brent and Gwen Mulroney. Lucy Arnelle. Julien and Sam Argent. Veronica Mars. Milena Stilinski. Manuel Ortega. Sanjana Damallanty. Raz Foster.” He continues to list off other names, other werewolves that he’s dealt with, a Druid or two, some hunters that he knows through his various contacts. “Are you fucking satisfied now?”

“You’ve made friends,” Peter says.

“Those aren’t all friends,” Stiles says, “but yeah, I’ve gotten to know my fair share of people.”

“Chandrasekhar . . . he’s part of the alpha pack, isn’t he? How did that go?”

“What is this, story time?” Stiles asks. “I’m trying to sleep.”

“Just trying to make sure that my daughter is in good hands,” Peter says.

“She’d be in better hands if those hands were allowed to get some rest,” Stiles says.

Peter considers for a long moment. “I saw her when you went in to get her. She didn’t seem well.”

“No, she doesn’t,” Stiles says, “but I’m not sure that has anything to do with her kidnappers.” He shares their theory that the accident might have startled Malia into shifting, and that she might have gotten trapped in that form. “Now the sorcerers seem to have figured out some way to force her to shift back, and she’s not dealing with it well.”

Peter grimaces. “I wish I had known,” he says.

“Yeah, well,” Stiles says, “if wishes were horses, we’d all be eating steak.” He sees Peter’s look, and groans. “Oh, God, you died before you saw Firefly. That’s it, we’re done here. I’ve gotta go.”

Abruptly, the scenery shifts, and Peter is gone.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

By dinner that evening, Stiles has received word back from about half his contacts, none of whom recognized the woman in Derek’s drawing. Deaton has reported in and said that the magical doorway can’t be traced, and he hasn’t been able to find evidence of that particular magic being used anywhere else in Beacon Hills.

“So they probably really left town,” Stiles says. “Great. I accomplished the exact opposite of I was trying to accomplish.”

His father is quiet, absently stirring his potatoes. “Look, kid, I don’t know much about how all this magic works. I know that if you had her hair or something, you could track her down that way. And apparently there’s enough of a connection between a parent and a child that they can use her to try to summon Peter. So can we do it backwards?”

“How so?” Stiles asks. “Peter isn’t exactly available.”

“Except, well, he sort of is,” Tom says. “I assume you do know where he’s buried.”

Stiles grimaces. “I . . . I don’t know if that would work. He’d be pretty . . . uh . . .”

“Decomposed,” his father supplies.

“Yeah. Deaton says that they’re probably using Malia’s blood. Blood magic is one of the most powerful kinds. Peter, uh, probably doesn’t have any blood available anymore.”

“This is one hell of a topic for the dinner table,” Melissa comments.

Tom laughs and squeezes her hand. “Sorry,” he says to her, but doesn’t let it go. “You don’t think his bones could be any use at all?”

“I feel like if they could be, Dr. Deaton would have mentioned it already,” Stiles says, “but I guess maybe not. I mean . . . he might not want to fuck me up any more than I’m already fucked up. So I guess I’ll ask him.” He decides to send a text over, not wanting to bother the Druid if he’s in the middle of anything.

Ten minutes later, he gets a return text and groans. Everyone gives him a questioning look. “Do you think Dr. Deaton has ever given anyone a straight answer in his life, ever?” he asks, and Derek gives a snort of laughter. Stiles holds his phone up and reads, ‘It’s possible that we might be able to use Peter’s bones to find Malia, but I can’t guarantee it would work’. That’s his answer to like every question I’ve ever asked him. ‘It’s possible, but who knows’.”

“Maybe that’s just how magic works,” Melissa says.

“Yeah, or maybe Deaton is a cryptic jerk,” Stiles grumbles. He texts back ‘do you think it’s worth giving it a try’ and waits. A few minutes later, he sighs. “He says that since we haven’t found them any other way, we could try.”

Tom holds up a hand. “Let’s wait on that, kiddo. I don’t want to go disturbing the dead without real cause. We still have other sources that we’re waiting for. I found a _lot_ of fingerprints in that bank and it’s going to take a while to run them all down. I know that . . . exhuming Peter’s body would be hard on you. So let’s wait.”

Stiles feels an overwhelming wave of relief, and in that moment realizes exactly how much he _didn’t_ want to go unearthing Peter’s body. “Yeah, okay,” he says. He assumes that he wasn’t being at all subtle about his reluctance, since his father decided to veto the idea after originally bringing it up.

Two hours later, when he’s immersed in his geology homework, he gets an e-mail from an address he doesn’t recognize. He opens it up to find it’s from a hunter in Spain, of all places. Apparently he’s a friend of a friend of Julien Argent’s. The e-mail is in Spanish, with an apologetic note about how his English isn’t very good. Stiles is thrilled to find that all his years of Spanish are now paying off, because he can read it fine.

“I’ve met this woman twice before, once in Spain and once in Switzerland,” the e-mail reads. “Unfortunately I don’t know her real name. She is a sorceress and a thief who goes by ‘the Falcon’. From what I know of her, she’s highly intelligent and utterly without morals. If she is threatening the life of an innocent girl, please take that threat seriously.”

He goes on to give more details about the two encounters, about how both times it involved the theft of a magical artifact. He had gotten involved the first time because it was a weapon that had been stolen, from a hunting family’s vault. The second time, it had been by chance, when she had stolen a mask from an art museum.

Before sharing this information with anyone else, Stiles runs himself a bath and draws himself inward. He focuses on picturing the Hale house, since he doesn’t want to have a conversation with Peter in the bathroom. “So,” he says, once they’re both standing in the empty living room. “Have you ever had dealings with a sorceress called the Falcon?”

“Can’t say that I have,” Peter says.

“You’re sure?”

“I would remember if I had dealt with someone who went by a moniker that pretentious,” Peter says, with a snort.

“I don’t supposed you were involved with art thieves at any point in your life?” Stiles asks.

“Art thieves? No,” Peter says. When Stiles gives him a look, he shrugs and says innocently, “I had a rather wild youth. I might have stolen a thing or two.”

“Of course you might have,” Stiles says. He sighs and shakes himself back to consciousness. He gets out of the bath and texts his father, along with several of his other contacts, the ones he keeps closer, to see if anyone knows anything about this. If this woman is an international art and artifact thief, her prints might be on file with Interpol.

As it happens, they are. The sheriff requests her file from Interpol, but says it might be a day or two before he gets it. “Interdepartmental bureaucracy,” he says with a shrug, when Stiles questions this. “You’re just lucky there was a bank robbery here and I found her prints inside, or else they’d want to know why we wanted it, and might not be willing to supply it at all.”

“The people who robbed this bank were caught,” Stiles points out.

“Sure, you know that and I know that,” Tom says, “but Interpol apparently doesn’t. Besides, I can always say that I think an accomplice got away.”

Stiles pushes both hands through his hair, leaving it standing in loose spikes. It’s ten AM Sunday morning. It’s going to take time to track all this stuff down. He’s still waiting for results on a lot of the other prints. Stiles is still waiting to hear back from multiple contacts about whether or not they’ve ever dealt with the Falcon or anyone who might know her.

“I guess I’ll head back to San Mateo, then,” he decides. His father gives him a questioning look. “I have midterms. Anyway, I can always come back if I need to.”

“Okay.” Tom hooks an arm around his shoulders and gives him a tight hug. “I’ll keep you posted on what I find out.”

Stiles drives back mostly in silence, chewing on everything he’s learned over the past few days. He doesn’t trust Peter to have been honest with him. He wants to think that if Peter knew this woman who was threatening his daughter, he would come clean. But it’s altogether too likely that he wouldn’t. He wishes that there was someone else who could maybe help verify all of this. Then he realizes that he’s sitting in a car with someone who maybe can.

“Hey, Derek,” he says, and the werewolf glances over. “Was Peter really like . . . a juvenile delinquent?”

A slight smile touches Derek’s face. “Yeah,” he says. “I mean . . . he was crazy smart, don’t get me wrong. And he’s the one who taught me and Laura . . . Cora, too . . . he taught us so much about how to hunt, how to fight. But he was always kind of the irresponsible uncle that swings into town, encourages bad habits, and then takes off again before our mom could get too mad at him.”

“What kind of stuff did he do?”

“I don’t know. A little of everything, I think.” Derek shrugs. “I was just a kid, you know. He didn’t exactly talk about all his exploits with me. If you mean ‘does it surprise me to find out that he might have been connected with an international art thief’, the answer is no. Peter was . . . he was a thrill-seeker. He did things just to see if he could, and didn’t worry too much about the consequences. At least, when he was our age. He’d gotten more . . .” Derek falls silent as he searches for a word. “Conservative, I guess, as he got older. Focused more on protecting the family, less on doing his own thing.”

“Do you know of anything he stole?” Stiles asks, and Derek shakes his head.

The pack is happy to have him back, and although Stiles thinks they know something is up, they don’t ask too many questions. They can smell the tension on him, but they know that Stiles is very invested in all of them focusing on college, not on supernatural garbage.

Stiles has a nagging feeling that Peter might be trying to talk to him, but he just doesn’t have time to sit down and meditate, at least, not with the others wanting time with their alpha and a Spanish assignment due the next day. It’s not until he’s fallen asleep that Peter appears, and the werewolf looks pissed.

“Why are you back in San Francisco?” he asks.

“I thought you couldn’t see through my eyes,” Stiles told him.

“And I thought I told you that the bond would increase as time went on,” Peter says, waving this aside. “What are you doing here?”

Stiles folds his arms over his chest and says, “I have midterms this week, since you ask, and a pack full of betas that don’t particularly like being separated from their alpha. I told you at the beginning that my real life is going to have to take precedence.”

“So you’re just going to let Malia suffer while you play at being a college boy?”

Stiles is pissed, now, but it’s a cold, vicious anger. “Look, maybe I haven’t made things clear to you,” he says. “I am running this show. Not you. And you might not believe this, but I do know what I’m doing. I’m waiting to hear back from people, and my father is running down information on the Falcon, and at the moment my hands are tied. So yes, I came back to San Francisco to ‘play’ at being a real boy.”

“That’s not good enough,” Peter says.

“Secondly,” Stiles continues, as if he hadn’t spoken, “don’t think I haven’t noticed your continued attempts to place responsibility for Malia’s situation on me. You’re every bit as manipulative and immoral as you were before you died, despite your attempts to convince me otherwise.” He meets Peter’s gaze and says, “What’s happening to Malia is not my fault. The fact that you aren’t alive to help her is, likewise, not my fault.”

“I’d be fascinated to know how you can say that, after you put a syringe of wolfsbane directly into my heart,” Peter says.

The question is clearly sarcastic, but Stiles answers it honestly, with a straight face. “Therapy. Lots of therapy. _Years_ of therapy. There was a time in the not-at-all-distant past where the first thing I did every morning was look in the mirror, look myself in the eye, and say ‘Peter Hale’s death was not my fault’. I did that every day, twice a day, for months. Wouldn’t you know it? My therapist was right. It started to feel like the truth after a while.”

“You did kill me,” Peter says.

“Yes, I did,” Stiles says. “And if I went back in time, I would do it again. But I wasn’t the reason I was in the position that killing you was the only choice.”

“You could have let me go.”

“You would have killed Allison, and God knows what you would have done to Scott and Lydia when they refused to accept you as their alpha.”

“But you had a choice,” Peter says. “You chose to protect them.”

Stiles feels his heart constrict painfully, but he fights through it, makes himself look Peter in the eye. “Okay, yes. I chose to protect my friends, my family, my _pack_ , over setting free the psychotic serial killer who had terrorized and tormented us. Sure. I guess you can look at it that way, if that really makes you feel better. But gee, you know what else occurs to me? You could have looked up Malia when you first came out of your coma. You could have tried to help her _then_. But you didn’t. So your ‘concerned father’ routine is wearing thin pretty fucking fast.”

“I didn’t know she was in trouble.”

“Yeah, because you didn’t care to _check_ ,” Stiles says. “Are you kidding me right now, Peter? Do you know what my father’s _first_ words would be, if he were ever in coma, after he woke up? They’d be ‘where’s my son’ or ‘is Stiles okay’ or something like that. You didn’t check because you didn’t _care_. You were so focused on your revenge that the life of your _daughter_ took so far a second place that you never even gave her a call to say ‘hey, how’re you doing, how’s life treating you’. Don’t fucking _start_ with me about how Malia is my responsibility. You didn’t care about her then and you probably don’t even care about her now. You’ve got an angle here, and I might not know what it is, but it’s there. And so we’re going to do this my way.”

For the first time, Peter’s face shows genuine frustration. “I’m not going to stand here and say I didn’t make mistakes,” he says. “You wouldn’t believe how many things dying puts into perspective for you. Yes, I should have been there for her and I wasn’t. You just won’t believe that _that’s_ the mistake I’m trying to rectify.”

“If that’s what you want, then sit the fuck down and let me do what I’m good at,” Stiles says. “I hope that’s what you want. I truly do. Because that’s all you’re going to get.”

Peter’s mouth thins, tightens, and then he gives another frustrated shake of his head and walks away. The dream gives way to typical blurry nonsense, but when Stiles wakes the next morning, he’s exhausted, like he had run a marathon in his sleep.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	4. Chapter 4

The pack can clearly tell that Stiles is feeling draggy the next morning, but they accept ‘I didn’t sleep well’ as a valid reason. He doesn’t like lying to them, although he supposes it isn’t a lie, per se. In any case, any attempt to hide things from them is blown when Derek decides he’s going to go to San Jose with him for his two classes.

He doesn’t need to go in his fur and his vest, because to be fair, both of Stiles’ classes are large enough that the professor won’t even notice an extra person sitting in the back. Even if they do, Stiles figures he’ll just tell the truth, that Derek is visiting him on campus for the day. It sometimes makes him laugh, how much more relaxed college is about things than high school. He warns Derek that he’ll probably end up incredibly bored. His Spanish class is conducted entirely in Spanish, and although Derek's Spanish is good, they aren't exactly discussing thrilling topics. His sociology class is doing mid-term presentations. By the virtue of his last name, he won’t have to present until Friday.

As Derek is getting his sketchbook and a box of his pencils to keep himself occupied while Stiles is in class, Allison pulls Stiles aside. “What’s going on that we don’t know about?” she asks.

Stiles pushes a hand through his hair. “Nothing that any of us are in immediate danger from,” he says. “In fact, the people involved aren’t actually interested in us at all. So we’ll have to wait and see what happens. I do plan to give all of you a full update, I just . . . need some time to think about how I’m going to explain it, that’s all.”

“If you’re sure,” she says, before giving him a quick hug and heading off to her own class.

He manages to focus well enough to get through Spanish and sociology, though it helps a lot to have Derek sitting beside him, a silent but reassuring presence. He uses one of his meal freebies so Derek can get some lunch with him. Derek stares at the chicken enchiladas that are the main course of the day like they came from a different planet. Stiles laughs at him and fills his face. He’s a good cook, but he’s also never been picky about food.

By the time he’s finished eating, he’s gotten an e-mail from his father that contains everything he’s been able to gather on the Falcon. Monday afternoons usually aren’t quiet at the apartment, so he decides to head over to the library. He texts Mac to let her know he’ll be on campus for a few extra hours and she can catch a ride back with him rather than taking the bus.

“I seriously feel like I’m in some international crime novel,” he says, after reading the first two pages of the dossier. “This shit is not small potatoes.”

The Falcon is wanted in seven different countries for twelve total (known) thefts, totaling over one point nine billion dollars. Stiles reads that twice and whistles. Most of the thefts are from private collections, although two are from museums. The artifacts range from the mundane necklace to the bizarre toenail clippers, from the morbid canopic jar to the hilarious dildo. She’s only been seen twice, never photographed, and once was only identified months after the theft.

She’s human, Stiles is sure of that much, but nobody has ever discovered her identity. Trying to figure out what fences she uses goes nowhere, so most of the detectives on her trail have concluded that she’s a thief-for-hire; she steals specific things for specific people.

“So she’s a hired gun,” he says to Derek, who’s leaning over his shoulder and nodding. “That’s probably why Peter doesn’t know her. Whoever is _really_ looking for him is whoever hired her.”

“Well, they’re not looking for him, though, are they,” Derek says. “They’re looking for some _thing_. And for some reason she thinks, or they think, that Peter has it. Or at least knows where it is.”

Stiles nods along with this. “Whatever it is must be valuable,” he says. “This woman doesn’t work for small change. So the question is, why does Peter swear he has no idea what it is?”

“Maybe he honestly doesn’t know,” Derek suggests. “Maybe they’re mistaken.”

“Yeah. All the more reason to find them, I guess,” Stiles says. “But if he doesn’t know, I don’t think they’ll just believe him and release Malia.”

Derek leans over and nuzzles at Stiles’ hair. “Cross that bridge when we come to it,” he says.

“We’re running low on options, though,” Stiles says. “This woman is a ghost. None of my regular contacts have heard of her or ever run into her. She doesn’t have financials we can trace to try to figure out where she’s staying. She’s not interested in being found, except by Peter. Which doesn’t leave us with a hell of a lot of options.” He sighs and shakes his head. “Let me call my dad, talk to him and Chris, see if they’ve had any bright ideas.”

He winds up on the phone with his father for over half an hour, discussing the Falcon and her history. They haven’t had any luck, but he has had an idea or two. “There must be some way to get in touch with this woman, you know, professionally. We could send her a message asking her to meet with us. I’ve been talking to my friends at the FBI, who are coordinating with Interpol – ”

“You have friends in the FBI?” Stiles asks, amused despite himself. “Since when?”

“Since a while ago,” his father says. “They tried to recruit me; it’s a long story. Anyway, let me see what I can come up with.”

“Okay,” Stiles says.

They pick up Mac and he heads back to the den. He studies a little, bakes for a while. Everyone is in the middle of their own studying, writing papers, finishing projects, getting ready for tests. He just wants to get through midterms and deal with this afterwards. He’s not thrilled about the idea of having Peter in his head that long – and he suspects that Peter will like it even less – but he’s not about to fail all his midterms because of this, either.

“Okay, pack meeting,” he says, as the dishes are being cleared away from dinner. “Yes, you’re all very aware that something is going on. I wanted to make sure I had a clear picture of what that was before I gave you all the sordid details. So let me start with the basics.” He sets down Derek’s sketch of the Falcon. “This woman is a sorceress and a thief who goes by the name Falcon. Don’t laugh, I see you all laughing. She’s after some artifact that was stolen years and years ago, we don’t know by who. She seems to think that she knows who stole it, and she’s kidnapped that person’s daughter in order to try to get him to reveal where it is.”

“Okay, and this has what to do with any of us?” Erica asks.

Stiles takes a breath and lets it out. “The person that the thief is looking for, is Peter Hale,” he says, and sees several of them go stiff. “As you might expect, she isn’t finding him.”

“Wait, since when does Peter have a daughter?” Lydia asks. She frowns and says, “Was there another survivor of the fire? Like Cora?”

“No,” Stiles says. “Actually. Peter’s daughter was born when he was twenty, and was raised by an adoptive family. Even Derek didn’t know that she existed. It’s anyone’s guess as to how the Falcon found out about her. Long story short . . .” He wonders how little he can get away with mentioning, sees the concerned looks on the pack’s faces, and decides he’d better not lie. He’d catch hell for it later. “Using Malia’s blood, she tried to do a summoning spell. Only she didn’t know Peter’s dead. I mean, in the mundane world at least, most people assumed he went on the run, and this lady seems to work mostly in Europe, so . . . the spell didn’t work. Or at least, it didn’t work well enough to actually get Peter to her. But it did cross the ether, so to speak, and get Peter’s attention. It produced a shade.”

“A ghost?” Scott asks. “The _ghost of Peter Hale_?”

“According to Dr. Deaton,” Stiles says, “a shade and a ghost are two moderately different things. Ghost, think your traditional, translucent figure wandering around a graveyard weeping and moaning. A ghost is like . . . an afterimage. Kind of a psychic energy. It roams without purpose, and it isn’t _really_ the spirit of the person who died, and most of the time they disperse without intervention. A shade is the actual soul of the person who died. As such, a shade can’t actually appear, because it’s just . . . thought and intent. A shade can only work through a medium, which is usually a person to whom it has some sort of metaphysical connection.”

Everyone stares at him. “You,” Lydia says flatly.

Stiles nods wearily. “Peter says that since I inherited the alpha power from him, we have a psychic sort of bond, and so when he was called back, it’s my brain that he got hooked up with.”

“Jesus,” Scott mutters.

“Unfortunately for the rest of us,” Stiles says, “Peter has no idea who the Falcon is, or what he might have that she’s looking for.”

Allison looks up and meets Stiles’ gaze. “Do you believe him?”

Stiles grimaces. “I’m not sure, to be honest. Yeah, a part of me thinks he’s lying. But then a part of me thinks I’m being overly suspicious of a guy who really just wants to help his daughter. And a third part of me acknowledges that both might be true. He’s already suggested once that I let him steer my body around to try to find Malia, and even though he’s said he doesn’t hold a grudge because I killed him, he sure brings it up a fuck of a lot. Though that could just be because he thinks I won’t help Malia if he doesn’t constantly remind me of it.”

“How could he just not know what he has that she might want?” Boyd asks. “From the way you talk about her, it sounds like she only goes for pretty specific things.”

“I don’t know,” Stiles says. “And I don’t know why she thinks he has it. She could be mistaken, for all we know. And until we track her down, we won’t be able to find out.” He sits back. “So. That’s what’s going on. Sorry about hiding stuff from you guys, but I didn’t want to tell you that Peter was visiting my brain until I knew what the fuck was going on.”

“Are you okay?” Erica asks, reaching over to rub her cheek against his shoulder.

“I am epically freaked out, thank you,” Stiles says. “I think I’m handling it pretty well, but arguing with him is just, ick, exhausting.”

“Does it seem like, you know . . .” Scott chews on his lower lip nervously. “Him?”

“Yes and no,” Stiles says. “In some ways, yeah, it seems just like him. But I think he’s genuinely worried for Malia. He says that, you know, dying changed him and he’s not who he used to be, but I’m pretty sure _that_ part is a crock of shit.”

Everyone laughs a little at this. There are more questions, a few suggestions, and then they decide to watch a movie together, because Stiles really feels like he could use the cuddle time. Before going to bed, he decides that he doesn’t want to talk to Peter, doesn’t want his dreams invaded. He doesn’t know much about psychic protection, but takes a page out of some of the books he’s read. He meditates the same way as always, but then pictures himself building a solid stone wall around his head, reinforced by the solid _belief_ that his mind is strong enough to withstand any onslaught.

He doesn’t get a visit from Peter, but he’s plagued by terrible dreams, and when dawn finally breaks, he wonders if it was worth it.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Two more days pass. Stiles doesn’t get any more visits from Peter, and he somehow gets the impression that the other man is sulking. He ignores this, and focuses on his classes. He knows that both his father and Chris Argent are working on trying to locate the Falcon and Malia, and he needs to be focused on his schoolwork. If nothing else, it will keep him from losing his mind.

He’s also on the phone with Deaton almost every afternoon. The Druid is still trying to track Malia down using magic. They’ve found her den in the woods, and some things there that he thinks should work, but either Malia is out of his range, or she’s being magically shielded. Either is possible. Stiles doesn’t think that the Falcon will go _far_ from Beacon Hills, which is where she obviously expects to find Peter, but she might be on the outskirts.

The two options that really seems to leave them with, he decides Wednesday night, are letting Peter take the temporary reins to see if he can respond to the summoning spell that way, or exhuming Peter’s body to see if they can use his bones to track Malia down with magic. Between the two, he’ll take the latter. He’s not thrilled with the idea – in fact, it gives him the heebie jeebies – but it’s far preferable to letting the bond with Peter strengthen any further.

He needs to talk over the options with a neutral party, but thankfully, he has one of those. He takes a few moments to make sure his webcam is still straight before he pulls up the Skype session. Gwen connects a few moments later and smiles at him, saying hello. “Hey, so, you know how you can think that your life can’t possibly get any weirder, and then you find yourself talking to the guy you killed?” he greets her. “That’s me. That’s how my week has been.”

There’s a long pause as Gwen takes a moment to consider this. “Understand that I’m asking this for fact-finding reasons. Which one?”

Stiles blinks, then says, “Oh, shit, yeah. Wow. Uh. I guess that sounded better in my head, I mean, how do you tell your therapist that the shade of a dead guy is – anyway, Peter. Peter Hale.”

“It wasn’t a bad opener,” Gwen says, amused despite herself. “Just a little sparse on detail. Now you said ‘shade’, so are we talking about the actual Peter Hale, not a hallucination or vivid nightmare?”

“Yep. The actual soul of actual Peter Hale, thanks to a botched summoning.”

Her eyebrows climb. “How is that going?”

Stiles lets out a slow breath. “It’s . . . okay. I got to yell at him about leaving me in the trunk of a car. And he even apologized for it. Sort of. I mean, he said that he hadn’t meant for that to happen. Which I knew, actually, I mean, he intended to come back and escape, not, you know, get shot and captured and tortured and stuff.”

“Does knowing that, hearing it from his own mouth, help?” Gwen asks.

Stiles takes a moment to think about it. “Yeah, I guess so. I haven’t had the balls to ask what he would’ve done with me if he _hadn’t_ gotten shot. Jesus. Now there’s a question I’ve tried to put out of my head during the last three years.”

“Do you actually need to know the answer to that? Or is it just morbid curiosity?” she asks. “He might not even have an answer.”

“Oh, I’m pretty sure he does, because he seems to plan things out pretty well, but no, I guess it’s just curiosity. Anyway, that’s besides the point. He, uh . . . I guess he has a daughter. Had a daughter. And now she’s being held for ransom, and they tried to summon him, and now I’m trying to help rescue her, which is turning into a long, painful exercise in futility and frustration.”

“I understand why you’re helping. That’s the sort of person you are. But why is Peter talking to you at all? I wouldn’t think, although I would hate to assume, that you’d be someone he would turn to for help.”

“Yeah, well, part of being a shade, according to the Druid in my life, is that you can only connect to the real world through a medium. Someone who was metaphysically connected to you in life.” Stiles spreads his hands out in front of himself, heaves a sigh, and says, “That’s me, apparently.”

“All right.” Gwen spreads her hands. “Explain this to me.”

“Bullet points,” Stiles says. “There’s a sorceress who’s looking for some artifact that Peter may or may not have had at some point in his life. We haven’t been able to figure out what yet. She kidnapped Malia, his daughter – she’s sixteen – and used her blood to summon Peter. The spell didn’t work, probably because she didn’t realize he’s dead, and he got about halfway, before getting wedged into my brain. He asked me – very politely, as a matter of fact – if I could figure out who was trying to summon him and why. Then we got into like six arguments about it because he wanted me to drop everything I was doing, including my college classes, and I told him to fuck right off. Anyway, we managed to find this woman, and Malia, and tried to get to Malia in transit, but that didn’t work, and now she’s gone off the grid, we can’t find her or Malia, and Peter’s really annoyed with me. And I’m really annoyed with him, kind of just on general principle.”

“Well, first of all, let me tell you that I’m proud of you for standing up to him.”

“Yeah, I kinda . . . I did that before I realized it was actually _him_ , you know? That helped. And he actually seems to like it when I stand my ground. He keeps telling me what a good alpha I make. Of course, this from the man who said ‘I like you’ before he put me in a car trunk, and then again before I murdered him, so hey, who knows what’s going on inside his head.”

“I have to say that I don’t actually want to know. But regardless, you stood up to him, and I’m proud of you. That sort of thing isn’t easy, whether it’s to a living person, a shade, or a hallucination.”

“I guess not,” Stiles says. “But now I have this problem, right? Because we can’t find Malia. The only options left are ones I don’t like. And I know it’s not my responsibility, I _know_ it’s not my fault that Peter’s not here to help his daughter, but . . .”

“It isn’t your responsibility,” Gwen says firmly, just so he can hear it from a professional, and gives it a moment to sink in. “But you’re the sort of person who will help if you can. That isn’t a bad thing. And I think you’re more interested in helping the daughter than in helping Peter. It’s not a bad thing that you want to do that.”

“No, I know that, but we’re getting perilously close to the point where any choice involved is going to mean taking risks. Like, one possible way to find Malia would be to let Peter take control of my body. Possess me. That’s a terrible idea, right? Over my dead body, I said. But what if that’s the only way? I can’t, I don’t know if I can make rational decisions about this.”

“Then don’t. You have people around you that you trust. That you can talk things over with. They care about you, but they’re not selfish enough to disregard Malia’s welfare. Talk to your father, talk to your pack.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Stiles says. “I’m just really terrible at letting other people do the decision-making.”

“You don’t have to let them decide for you. You can decide together.”

Stiles looks down at the paper he’s slowly been tearing into little pieces. “If something bad happens to Malia, I don’t know that I could handle that.”

“Then you have to find the option that helps her and doesn’t harm you.” Gwen lets that sit for a moment. “If that option doesn’t exist, invent it. That’s one of your strengths, Stiles. Finding the option that no one else thinks of.”

Stiles looks at her skeptically. “I’ll totally grant that I find options people don’t think of, but they usually involve throwing myself into danger. Like the time I injected myself with wolfsbane, or the time I redirected Stone’s spell into myself, or the time I had the others lock me back in the freezer when Ian had captured me . . .”

Gwen holds up a hand. “Stop. You’re going to make me think I’m doing my job badly.”

“I’m just sayin’, my ‘solutions’ aren’t the sort of thing that give people joy.”

“Noted,” Gwen says. “But my point is, think outside the box. Come up with some ideas. You’re a smart guy, Stiles. You’ll come up with something.”

“But what if I don’t?” Stiles asks, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Stiles, all you can do is the best you can. And when you think about the risks you’re willing to take, for Malia’s sake, remember that there are a lot of people who love you, people who depend on you. If you have guilt over Peter’s death, that’s completely understandable. But don’t let it make you think that you don’t deserve the things that you’ve worked hard to get. Malia’s safety is important. But your safety is important too.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, and nods, feeling some of the pressure ease up. “Okay. I’ll try to remember that. I just feel like – it’s different with Malia. She didn’t, didn’t _choose_ to get involved in this.”

“Neither did you,” Gwen points out. “Yes, you chose to kill Peter, but the choices that put you in that position weren’t yours. Kate chose to kill Peter’s family; Peter chose to turn Scott. Your actions aren’t the kind that put you on a boy scout’s level, but Stiles, you’re an innocent in that regard as much as Malia is.”

“I wouldn’t go back and give it up,” Stiles says.

“Okay,” Gwen says, “but that’s not really relevant to the point you’re making.”

“I guess not.”

Gwen gives him a moment. “I’m not saying that you’re going to have to choose between your welfare and Malia’s,” she says. “I just want you to remember that you are important. In fact, let’s do that out loud. Phrase it however you like.”

Stiles knows that’s a trap; whenever Gwen asks him to say something out loud but lets him choose how to say instead of having him repeat after her, she’s trying to get a better look at how he feels about things. But he does it anyway. “I’m an important person, and I deserve to be here, and there are a lot of people who need me, and I should remember that when I make my choices.”

“Good,” Gwen says, in that voice of honest praise that always makes Stiles blush. “Remember that, and you’ll be okay.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Somehow, Stiles survives until midterms are over. Everyone’s gotten through them okay. He’s tense and edgy and exhausted. Part of that is just because of normal stress and trying to get all his classwork done, in between reviewing endless reams of data on the Falcon and her methods and trying to figure out where she might be hiding. But part of it is because sleep seems strangely useless now. He wakes up every morning feeling like he’s been running a marathon while unconscious. He’s been plagued by nightmares, even worse than usual, but hasn’t dared take his Lunesta because he knows it would affect his school performance.

He makes a mental note to talk to Deaton about it, about whether Peter’s presence in his head is causing this. He can see why it might be, if Peter is trying to talk to him in his sleep and he’s having to constantly guard his mind. Physically, he’s not sure how that would work, but it at least seems possible.

After discussion, as recommended, with Derek and his father and Deaton, they’ve agreed that trying to use Peter’s bones to locate Malia is the next logical step. He talks this over with both of them while the pack is getting their things together for spring break, and by around noon, they’re on the road back to Beacon Hills. He decides to let Derek drive because it’s just now occurring to him, belatedly, that they might want to ask Peter permission to dig up his corpse.

He sits in the front passenger seat and closes his eyes, lets the hum of the road help him sink into a trance. He finds himself in the woods by the old Hale house. It’s now burned and decrepit again, and he’s not sure if that’s his own subconscious’ fault or if Peter’s is bleeding into his. Peter is sitting on the front step, looking annoyed.

“Are you pouting?” Stiles asks.

“I am not pouting,” Peter says icily.

“Uh huh.” Stiles isn’t impressed. “Okay, well, we’re on our way back to Beacon Hills. Here’s what we’ve been up to in the meantime.” He gives Peter the benefit of the doubt, assumes that the dead man hasn’t been spying on him constantly, and sums up what they’ve managed to find out. “So since none of that has worked out, Deaton says we can see if we can reverse the summoning spell. The trick is, we’re going to have to dig up your body, and I thought it might be nice to get your permission first.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t light it on fire,” Peter muses.

“I didn’t need to,” Stiles says, and lets his eyes flare crimson. “I knew you were dead.”

“Fair enough,” Peter says. “Yes, I suppose it’s fine if you exhume my body. I certainly don’t have any attachment to it anymore. I don’t imagine it will be comfortable for you.”

Stiles shrugs. “Pretty sure I’ve gone through worse. If that works out, we’ll be able to at least get their location. Then we’re going to have someone go in, say that you sent them, and find out what they’re after. If we’re lucky, it’s something you left in a safety deposit box somewhere, we can go get it, and be done with this.”

Peter is frowning faintly. “Who do you propose to use as my agent? They’ve already seen you, and Derek, who’s the most likely candidate.”

“Yeah, you won’t like this,” Stiles says. “You remember Chris Argent?”

“He’s a hard man to forget,” Peter says dryly. “Why in God’s name would you send him? He was rather complicit in the whole ‘keeping me captive in their basement while Gerard tortured me’ thing.”

“Yes, he was,” Stiles says, “but over the years he and I have come to a mutual appreciation of what the other has to offer. Chris is a good hunter. I want to send him, because he’s the best tactician I know. He’ll be able to assess the surroundings and be the most capable of using that knowledge to form a plan of attack, if what the Falcon wants isn’t something we can provide.”

Peter surprises Stiles by nodding in immediate agreement. This strikes Stiles as somewhat amusing. Most of the people he knew held grudges against Chris for years. Peter is more practical than that, the same way Stiles was himself. “Well enough. I assume you have reason to believe he’s willing to help?”

“We’ve worked together before,” Stiles says. “A number of times, actually. We’re not exactly buddies, but we _are_ allies. And some weird stuff has been going on in the hunter community lately, so . . . it’s kind of a long story.”

“Sounds like one I’d be interested in hearing,” Peter says.

“Maybe later,” Stiles says.

Peter nods. He lets out a breath and looks vaguely uncomfortable. “I do feel I owe you an apology,” he says, and Stiles raises his eyebrows. “I told you that I didn’t hold a grudge against you for killing me, and I don’t. If I’ve thrown it in your face, it’s only because I’m concerned for Malia, and because I wanted to secure your help by any means necessary.”

Stiles studies him for a long minute. “You don’t need to manipulate me into helping her,” he says. “She’s an innocent girl, and people are hurting her. That’s the only reason I need. Her relationship to you is tangential.”

“Maybe I’m just not used to people doing the right thing merely _because_ it’s the right thing,” Peter says.

“Well, I wouldn’t get used to it in general,” Stiles says dryly, “but from me, it’s something you can trust. So just . . . stop with the extortion attempts, okay? We’ll get Malia out of this.”

Peter nods. He looks at Stiles, tilts his head to one side, and says, “Tell me a story.”

“Are you kidding?” Stiles asks, but he laughs despite himself.

“No,” Peter says. “You’re not doing anything else right now; you’ve got time. You’re very different from the way you were when I met you, and I have to admit I’m somewhat curious about exactly how that happened.”

“One story,” Stiles says. ‘Then you’ll go to sleep like a good boy?”

Peter grins widely, showing teeth. “One story.”

Stiles tells him about the alpha pack. He tells them about how Kali Steele was determined to fail him because she had been in love with Laura, in her own psychotic, obsessive sort of way. He tells Peter about Vivien and her hunters. He tells Peter about how he and Derek had come to terms with the fact that Derek was his lupa, how he had found out what Kali had done to the previous pack leader, and how she had turned the alpha pack against her.

“That was a lovely story, Stiles,” Peter says, when he’s finished.

“The first of many,” Stiles says. He’s quiet for a minute. “Trevor got the alpha power from his previous alpha, who willed it down to him. Mei got it the same way, from her mother, who didn’t want her killer to steal her power. I never thought about it that way, but . . . did you . . .?”

Peter gives him a look. “I knew that Derek didn’t want the alpha power,” he says. “Nor would he have had any idea what to do with it. And he was the only one left. I knew that you were willing to do whatever it took to protect your pack. I saw that with my own eyes when you came into that basement. I didn’t know if it was possible for you to inherit the alpha power from me, being in that you were human. But I thought, _if_ you could . . . wouldn’t _that_ be interesting? A human alpha. So yes, I don’t know that I did it _purposefully_ , but I may have done it.”

Stiles considers this. “Thanks,” he says. “Without that power, I couldn’t have protected them.”

“You’ve built yourself quite a pack,” Peter says. “There were what, eight or nine people living in that apartment?”

“The pack has ten now,” Stiles says, smiling despite himself.

“Good for you,” Peter says.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *whistles innocently*

Derek gives Stiles a gentle nudge as they approach Beacon Hills, pulling him out of his thoughts and the conversation. He feels exhausted again, and he’s wondering if the mental conversation is physically tiring. He makes a mental note to ask Deaton, presuming that this doesn’t work and they wind up sharing headspace for longer.

“Okay, I’ve got things to do,” Stiles says, as they’re dropping off their things at the den. “Who wants to come with me?”

“What exactly are you going to go do?” Lydia asks.

“We’re going to dig up Peter’s body,” Stiles says. “Hopefully Deaton will be able to use one of the bones to locate where the Falcon is holed up. Then Chris is going to go in and say he’s Peter’s ‘agent’, to find out exactly what this woman is after, and try to figure out if we can provide it in exchange for Malia’s safety.”

That was another point of long discussion. Since Peter doesn’t know these people personally, Chris could have pretended to _be_ Peter. But Stiles worried about what might happen if they realized the deception. They want these people to deal with them on good faith, so it’s better to be honest when at all possible.

“So you shouldn’t actually be involved,” Boyd says.

“No,” Stiles agrees. “Beyond showing my dad where Peter is buried. If it wasn’t for that, I wouldn’t even need to be there.”

There’s some brief discussion. Isaac says he can go, as the person who, without question, knows the most about grave-digging. Erica wants to go, because she always sticks close to Stiles at times like this. Derek will go, of course. After some hemming and hawing, the others agree that that’s probably enough, since Stiles won’t actually be in any danger (they hope) and they just got home and have families who want to see them.

That works for Stiles because it means they can all pile into the Jeep and he doesn’t need to worry about taking two cars. The spell will be best once the moon is up, Deaton says, but it will take some time to dig up the grave. Isaac offers to borrow some equipment from the business, but Stiles doesn’t see how they could get it all the way to the Hale property, at least not without more planning ahead than they’ve done. So it’s just the four of them and some shovels. His father joins him at five o’clock, looks down at the half-dug hole.

“Jesus, kid,” he says, as he pulls Stiles into a half hug.

Another hour goes by, and then Isaac’s shovel hits something with a crunch. A little while later, they’ve uncovered the black body bag that they had buried Peter in. Stiles tells himself that this isn’t a big deal, that it’s just going to be bones, that it doesn’t matter if his father sees this. He winds up on his butt with his head between his knees, trying not to hyperventilate, while Derek rubs his back.

“I can’t, I can’t watch you open it,” he chokes out, letting Derek try to soothe him. “Don’t let my dad do it, either.”

“I’ll do it,” Isaac says. “I didn’t know him. Anyway, bodies don’t bother me. What do we need? Any bone?”

“Specifically,” the sheriff says, “Deaton says we want a finger bone, preferably the pinky or ring finger, if it can be found.”

Stiles shudders a little as he hears the bag unzip. Barely a moment passes before Isaac says, “Okay, got it,” and starts climbing out of the grave.

“We have to – have to put it back afterwards,” Stiles says.

Derek squeezes his hand. “Okay.”

Isaac has already wrapped the bone up in a handkerchief they brought, and put it in a Zip-loc bag, so Stiles doesn’t even have to look at it. Sunset is still about an hour away, so his father proposes getting dinner. Stiles isn’t really hungry, but he’s sure that everybody else is, so they park themselves at a Chinese restaurant and order some food.

Deaton is waiting at his office, and accepts the little bag from Isaac. “Now, even if this works, it won’t get us an exact location,” he says. “It’ll work like a dowsing spell. So it can let us know the general area.” He spreads a map out over the table. “My guess is that they’re still somewhere fairly nearby, because they’re using the power of the ley lines to fuel the spell.”

A few minutes later, he’s ready. He’s tied the bone at the end of a leather cord. Stiles is watching it in some fascination, despite himself. Then there’s a long period of time where Deaton is just standing with the bone dangling over the map, eyes closed in concentration. Slowly, it begins to sway, then swing outward in a spiral. Deaton slowly moves his hand over the map. He’s nearly off of one edge completely when the bone swings sharply outwards. He moves his hand in that direction, and it moves in a tight little spiral over a specific point.

“Where is that?” Derek asks, leaning over.

“There’s nothing there on my map,” Deaton says.

Stiles takes out his laptop and starts typing. “Google Earth, to the rescue,” he says. A moment later, he says, “Huh. Okay. Looks like it’s an old barn, probably abandoned.” He shuts the laptop and says, “Seriously, why are there so many abandoned buildings in Beacon Hills? We need to work up an urban revitalization program. Maybe then people wouldn’t keep flocking here to cause trouble.”

“Yeah,” Derek says, amused. “That’s the problem.”

“I’m just saying,” Stiles says. He texts Chris briefly to give him the location and says, “He’ll meet us there. Dr. Deaton, if you would come along to give us some protection from any magical mayhem, I’d appreciate it.”

“Of course,” Deaton says, putting the map away. They get into their cars and head to the north side of town. The barn is in a large field, at the end of an old dirt road. The entire clearing is bathed in moonlight, with good visibility even though there were no artificial lights.

Chris’ first words to Stiles upon greeting him are, “I don’t like this location. It’s very exposed. They must already know we’re here.’

“Well, subtlety isn’t our play, at least not tonight,” Stiles says. “For now, I just want to get the lay of the land, and hopefully find out what the hell they’re after. To that end . . .” He holds up a pair of glasses with an embedded camera that he had gotten from Veronica Mars for Christmas.

“Just in case I don’t make it?” Chris asks, arching an eyebrow.

“Dude, if you don’t make it, we’re going to have bigger problems,” Stiles says. “I just want a record.”

“Fair enough,” Chris says, adjusting the glasses until the camera feed is straight. He lets out a breath, double checks his weapons and says, “Okay. Let’s do this.” Without any hesitation in his stride, he walks over to the front door and raps hard.

A bare moment later, one of the men that Stiles had seen in the vault the previous weekend opens it. Chris holds his hands up in a position of surrender and says, “I’m here for Malia.”

“Gun,” the man grunts, and Chris hands it over without complaint. Stiles is sure he’s got at least two more tucked away somewhere. Chris looks up and around slowly, getting a look at the entire place. Stiles appreciates that.

Malia is in a circle again, and this time she’s sleeping, which he figures is good because at least she’s not screaming. Stiles studies her as Chris does. She looks healthy enough, like they’ve been treating her reasonably well. Her hair is tangled and she’s dressed in the same clothes as before. It’s hard to get a decent look at her, because there are only a few dim spotlights around the room.

The Falcon steps out of the shadows and gives him a measuring glance. “You are not Peter Hale,” she says.

“No,” Chris says. “I’m here on his behalf. He doesn’t appreciate being summoned.”

The Falcon just shrugs one shoulder in response to this. “I take it you’re to carry a message, then.”

“Yes. And he wanted me to verify that Malia is well, and that you haven’t hurt her.”

“By all means,” the Falcon says, gesturing to the circle. Chris walks over and kneels beside it. When he reaches out a hand to her, the same thing happens to him that had happened when Malia tried to reach over the circle. Little silver sparks rain down, and he jerks his hand back. “You’ll have to do it from out there,” the Falcon says, sounding amused.

“So I see,” Chris says, and then says, more gently, “Malia. Can you hear me? Your father sent me.”

Malia’s eyes flutter open. She stares around in confusion, catches sight of the Falcon, and her face creases into a massive scowl. She pulls her knees to her chest and rolls over so she doesn’t have to look at any of them.

“I should point out that her mental condition is no fault of mine,” the Falcon says. “She was like this when I got to her.”

“Your treatment probably hasn’t helped.” Chris gets to his feet. “What do you want?”

“We want Peter Hale.”

“No kidding,” Chris says. “I think he was hoping for something a little more specific. Do you want him dead or alive, for example.”

The Falcon sighs. “Peter Hale is in possession of something that he stole, twenty years ago. The previous owner has hired me to retrieve it. Once it’s in my hands, his daughter will be released.”

“Simple enough. What is it that he has?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that. My owner was very specific about the level of discretion this job requires. Even my men don’t know what it is that we’re after, just that the pay day warrants the effort. I can only tell Peter Hale what it is that we’re looking for.”

Chris’ jaw sets unhappily. “And if he won’t or can’t make it here to find out what that is?”

“Then it’s a shame about his daughter, isn’t it,” the Falcon says.

Chris thinks about this for a minute. “What if it’s something he no longer has?”

“That’s not my problem.”

“Well, no, but are you going to make it Malia’s problem?”

The Falcon just gives him a withering look. “I’m not in this to hurt anybody. I just want my money. If Hale says that he’ll need some time to track it down, if he sold it or gave it away, I can be reasonable.”

“But you’ll only tell Peter himself what it is that you want.”

“Yes, and thanks to Malia here, I’ll be able to verify his identity, so tell him not to think about sending someone in his place again. He has forty-eight hours. If he’s not here by then, I’ll kill the girl.” The Falcon makes a gesture with one hand, then turns and walks away. The same man that had let Chris in nudges him towards the door. He goes without complaint.

They can’t exactly debate strategy out in the field, so they drive to a nearby diner and get a table in the corner and a lot of coffee. Once the waitress is at a safe distance, Chris says, “This is going to be a problem.”

“Why don’t we just tell them the truth?” Tom asks. “That Peter is dead?”

“She’d never believe us,” Stiles says glumly. “She’d want to know how we knew he was being summoned, how we were able to find her.”

“So we’d tell her the truth about that, too.”

Even Derek is shaking his head. “From her standpoint, what’s easier to believe? That Peter Hale died years ago, and her spell produced a shade that can only talk to one person, who would have no earthly reason to help him, and we did a bunch of complicated magic to track her down? Or that Peter is spinning some tale to try to rescue his daughter without giving up something he wants to keep?”

Tom grimaces. “We could give it a try, at least.”

“Even if she believed us, what’s to stop her from just cutting her losses, killing Malia, and taking off?” Chris asks.

“Does she seem like the type who would do that?” Deaton asks.

Chris shrugs. “It could go either way. I think she’s just as likely to do that as she is to let her go with an ‘oh, sorry, I didn’t know’. It’s certainly nothing I’d be willing to bet Malia’s life on.”

Stiles pushes both hands through his hair. “Tactically, what are our options?”

“They aren’t good,” Chris says. “The surrounding landscape offers virtually no cover. They’d see us coming half a mile away. Presuming we could get inside – let’s say we brought someone pretending to be Peter – even then it’s not good. She’s got her guys up in the rafters. They could pick us off easily. And let’s not forget that we can’t get Malia out of that spell.”

“There’s no way at all?” Tom directs this question to Deaton.

“I could probably break if, but I couldn’t guarantee her safety,” Deaton says. “There’s a lot of power in that circle.”

“Some spells end when the caster is killed, right?” Stiles asks, drawing a sharp look but no active protest from his father.

“Correct,” Deaton says, “but this isn’t one of them. That circle won’t change a bit if the Falcon is killed.”

“Could we buy her off?” Derek asks. “I don’t know how much she’s getting paid for this job, but I might have enough to counter it.”

“No way,” Chris says. “Not someone like her. If she could be bribed to drop a job, she’d never have made it to the level she’s at. It would damage her reputation, and she’d be blacklisted.”

They all sit and drink their coffee for a few minutes in silence.

“We’ve got to get her to tell us what it is she’s after,” Derek finally says. “I mean, we might be able to get it to her, if only we knew what it was. Maybe we can find out who hired her.”

Chris nods. “Well, we know a few things about it. It’s something that was stolen twenty years ago, something valuable, that demands discretion. It was obviously stolen from somebody who has a lot of money, to afford the Falcon’s prices.”

“Something else, too,” Stiles says. “Why is this happening now? Twenty years have gone by. Did he just now decide he wants it back?”

“It’s possible he only just now figured out who stole it,” Tom says. “He – or she – might have been looking for it for years. Or maybe he realized it was Peter two years ago but they only just now found Malia. There are a lot of possibilities.”

Stiles groans. “Great. Just what we need. Lots of possibilities.”

“Look, it’s getting late,” Chris says. “Let’s head back into town. I’ll hit up some of my contacts, see if anyone can think of anything that might have been stolen that fits this criteria. Stiles, you – you can talk to Peter, right?” He gives a little grimace, and Stiles nods. “So ask him. He’s got to be able to figure out what it is. If we can get it, we won’t need to worry about the fact that he can’t be physically present.”

“Yeah, okay,” Stiles says. That’s a conversation he’s not looking forward to, but he thinks he can handle it. They settle their tab, generously tip the waitress for leaving them alone so they could talk, even though they hadn’t ordered anything, and head back to their cars. He pulls Deaton aside and says, “Can I ask you a quick question?”

“Sure,” Deaton says.

“Lately I’ve just been – really tired,” Stiles says. “It’s like sleeping doesn’t help anymore; I swear I’m more tired when I wake up. It’s worse if I’ve been arguing with Peter, but bad even if I’ve just been trying to shut him out. Is that a, a thing that would happen?”

Deaton grimaces a little. “Understand that this, acting as a medium for a shade, isn’t something that _anybody_ knows much about, it’s so rare,” he says. “I can definitely see how it would have that effect on you. Not even because you’re arguing with him, but just because . . . in a way, Peter is like a parasite, and you’re hosting him in your body. He’s using up your energy, just to continue existing. The continued attempts to summon him are probably exacerbating the situation.”

“Great,” Stiles says. He reminds himself that this, at least, is not Peter’s fault. At least, not directly.

Once they get back to the den, it takes some time to update the others. None of them are particularly happy, but at least they’re not directly involved. They want to help Malia, if they can, but it isn’t an imperative for them, the way it feels to Stiles.

He drinks some green tea but passes on his Lunesta, since he doesn’t know whether it would keep him from effectively communicating with Peter. He finds himself in the woods again, standing at the unearthed grave. “Ugh, my subconscious needs to be taken out and shot,” he says to Peter, who’s sitting at the edge of the grave, his feet dangling in.

“It is somewhat masochistic, it would seem,” Peter agrees. He’s tense, seeing the look on Stiles’ face. “Bad news?”

“Neutral news,” Stiles says. “We got in and out safely. Malia is still fine, or at least as fine as she was last weekend. But the Falcon won’t tell us what it is that she’s after. She says her employer has only instructed her to give that information directly to you, that it’s a ‘matter of discretion’. Which, okay, once she stole a sex toy, so I can kinda see that.”

Peter gives an amused snort. “Anything else?”

“She’s given you forty-eight hours to show up,” Stiles says. “Now, if we can figure out what she’s looking for and produce it, I doubt she’ll actually care about who delivers it. She says you stole it twenty years ago, and it’s clearly valuable.”

“Mm.” Peter stares off into the forest for a long time. “The full moon is tomorrow night, isn’t it.”

“What? Yes, but what does that have to do with anything?”

“I’m just thinking aloud. Twenty years ago? I would have been nineteen, and that’s presuming that it’s an exact time frame. I got up to a lot of trouble when I was an older teenager. There’s a lot of things she could be looking for.”

“Something that would be worth multi-millions of dollars?” Stiles presses. “That the owner wouldn’t want anyone to know that he was looking for?”

Peter rubs a hand over his head. “There was, ahem, a series of thefts I was involved in. Antique stores, collectors, museums. Not just in Beacon Hills, but all around California and various points in the west. And, complicating matters, many of the things I stole were lost in the fire, and therefore cannot be produced now, even if I was sure of what they wanted. We _have_ to know what it is they’re after.”

“Jesus.” Stiles rubs a hand through his hair. “I don’t know how to get her to tell us.”

“She’ll tell me,” Peter says.

“Yeah. But you’re dead.”

Peter’s quiet for a moment. “There’s a way.”

Stiles narrows his eyes. “What do you mean, ‘there’s a way’? A way to what, precisely?”

“To bring me back. It requires a full moon, and the blood of the person who killed me and took my alpha power. We have both those things.”

“You . . .” Stiles has to take a deep breath, and even then it comes out strangled. “You _son of a bitch_. You’ve been planning this the whole time.”

Peter holds up his hands in surrender. “No.”

“No? Am I supposed to believe that? For all I know, you hired this woman to do all of this, you used your own daughter, to make me feel sorry for you so I would do this. She might not even _be_ your daughter; I only have your word on that and she’s nonverbal, which is kind of convenient now that I think about it. Why the _hell_ should I believe you? You’re nothing but a liar and a killer.”

“I’m not – ” Peter bites off the words. “You don’t have any reason to trust me. I can’t change that. But that’s not what this is. The spell would only return me for a few days, anyway. That would be the limit of its power. It would give me enough time to get in, find out what this person is after, and get my daughter.”

“Why the hell should I believe you?”

“Don’t. I’ll give you all the details. You can verify it with Deaton, or one of your other contacts.” Peter looks up at Stiles. “I was willing to let you do this your way. I was patient with you, as much as I was able. But I won’t sit back while my daughter is killed.”

“Is that a threat?” Stiles asks. “Are you threatening me?”

“I would, if I thought it would work,” Peter says. “But you and I both know that there isn’t much I can do to you. All I can do is ask you. You’re right. I wasn’t there for Malia and I should have been. Help me fix that mistake. Help me help her.”

Stiles shakes his head. “There has to be another way.”

“Stiles, we’re running out of time,” Peter says. “This will only work on the night of the full moon, and that’s tomorrow. If we miss that opportunity, what will we do? The Falcon gave us forty-eight hours. We don’t have room to sit back and contemplate our lack of choices.”

“And that’s just what you want, isn’t it,” Stiles says. “For me to feel rushed. Like if I don’t do this, Malia will die and that will be the end of it.”

“Listen to me,” Peter says urgently. “That’s the situation, whether or not either of us like it. Those are the _facts_. You think maybe I orchestrated this. How? I was _dead_. I don’t exactly have the money I would have needed to pay someone off. Maybe I did it before the fact, you’re thinking. Left it in my will, that if I ever got killed, she should do this. But if you think about that for a minute, you’ll recognize that that can’t be true, either. Why would I have waited three years, in that case? Show Deaton the spell. He’ll verify for you that it loses potency as time goes on. If this had been my purpose, I would have done it years ago.”

Stiles hesitates. “If she didn’t know you were dead, or if she couldn’t find Malia, it might have taken her longer.”

“You’re nitpicking, Stiles, because you know I’m right. Because out of all the plans I might have had to bring myself back to life, this wouldn’t have been one of them. How could I have guessed that you would be willing to help Malia at all? How could I have known for sure that I would be killed by someone who _could_ take the alpha power, rather than being killed by a hunter? For that matter, I didn’t precisely plan to die at all.”

“Nobody does,” Stiles says.

Peter’s mouth thins and he says, “Stiles, I’m _begging_ you. Please. Help me help my daughter. Do whatever you want to me – tie me up, do magic on me, keep me locked in a car trunk if it’d make you feel better, but _help me_. Please. _Please_.”

“Jesus, I can’t,” Stiles blurts out, backing away. “I can’t deal with this. Let me – ” He stops and forces himself to take another breath. “Give me the spell. I’ll show it to Deaton. Maybe, _maybe_ , if he can verify it’ll do exactly what you said, I’ll consider it.”

“That’s enough,” Peter says. “For now, that’s enough. Thank you.”

Stiles sits down on the opposite side of the grave. Peter draws the basics of the spell out in the dirt while Stiles watches.

“It might not matter,” he says. “I can’t do magic.”

“You’re not doing the magic,” Peter says. “It’s all in the moonlight. You’re just the power source.”

“That’s comforting,” Stiles says, thinking of the last time he was the power source for a spell. “God, I can’t believe I’m even considering this.”

“Surely you’ve faced down things worse than me, in the years since you became alpha,” Peter says.

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees. “I have. I could probably list half a dozen off the top of my head. But none of them were you.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am, possibly, very excited about this chapter. \o/

Stiles obviously won’t be sleeping after that little conversation, so he gets out of bed and starts baking. Derek doesn’t question this when he gets up about an hour past dawn. The den is empty besides the two of them. The pack all has their own families to see to. Stiles sent Erica home, lest her father have a coronary when she didn’t check in. He could have slept at his father’s place, but the den is more secure, and he’s feeling decidedly insecure.

“Want to check in with Deaton,” he says, after they’ve eaten some breakfast.

Derek gives him a somewhat concerned look. “You’re sure you’re up to that? You look . . .”

“Yeah, I know how I look,” Stiles says, rubbing a hand over his face. He had caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. It’s been a long time since he’s looked this bad, but then again, dealing with sleepless nights is something he’s gotten accustomed to. On the other hand, he has a tendency to make poor decisions when he’s sleep-deprived.

They get in the car, and drive over to the clinic. Stiles parks outside but doesn’t go in. “You know, the other day, when I was talking to Gwen, she told me . . . to find the third option. I guess that’s a thing that I do, you know? Come up with something that nobody else would see coming. And I sort of thought of something, or I guess Peter did . . . but I can’t tell if it’s genius or idiotic.”

“From you? Both could be true,” Derek says.

“Yeah.” Stiles swallows hard. “What if there was a way to bring Peter back?”

Derek gives a classic Hale eye roll. “C’mon, Stiles, we need to . . . shit. You’re serious.”

“Yep. There’s a spell. Peter says that it would only bring him back for a few days. That it would give him time to go in, find out what they want, and help us get it.”

“Okay.” Derek’s silent for a minute. “You’re not seriously considering it, are you?”

“I don’t know what else to do,” Stiles says. “We haven’t come up with anything else, and the odds aren’t good that we’re going to. We have no idea what this woman wants or how to get it. Chris says a tactical assault would basically be suicide. Deaton says we can’t get Malia out of the circle without the Falcon’s cooperation. Should we just let Malia die? Let’s say she wasn’t Peter’s daughter. What if she was Boyd’s little sister? Or even some random person we met on the street. Wouldn’t we do anything to save the life of an innocent?”

“Yeah,” Derek says quietly.

“And I, I won’t deny that I’m all turned around about this because I killed Peter, and so yes, I feel some responsibility to her. That might not be logical or accurate, but, but emotions _aren’t_. I can’t just not feel that.” Stiles pushes a hand through his hair. “And then there’s a part of me that thinks I’m letting my feelings about Peter interfere. Like, what if I’m denying him the chance to save his daughter because I’m still angry at him? What if he’s really telling the truth when he says that dying changed something in him, that he’s not the same anymore?”

“No, you’re right,” Derek says. “And I have to admit . . . if it’s _Peter_ again, if it’s my uncle, if dying cured him of his insanity . . . there’s a part of me that would want to see him again.”

“So you don’t think I’m crazy?” Stiles asks.

“Well,” Derek says, very slowly.

Stiles smacks him in the upper arm. Derek smirks at him.

“Seriously, though,” Derek says, “what do you think?”

“I think . . . that bringing Peter back would be dangerous,” Stiles says, chewing on his lower lip. “That just because he says he doesn’t hold a grudge against me for killing him doesn’t mean it’s true. He’s smart and he’s manipulative, and I don’t put it past him to have somehow planned this from beyond the grave. He could want to kill me, want to steal the alpha power that he gave me, even if he doesn’t want this pack. But . . .”

His voice trails off. Derek gives him a minute, then prompts, “But?”

Stiles looks up and his eyes flash crimson. “But I wouldn’t let him.”

Derek leans over and gives Stiles a kiss on the forehead. “Of course you wouldn’t.” He pulls Stiles into a hug with one arm for a minute. “Why don’t you go talk to Deaton, verify the spell. I’ll check in with your dad and with Chris Argent. Okay?”

“Yeah, okay.” Stiles pulls away from Derek and jogs into the clinic. Deaton is just finishing up administering vaccinations to a yowling cat. Stiles waits until he’s done, and then says, “So apparently an alpha can resurrect the alpha they killed to get their power, on the night of a full moon.”

Deaton turns and blinks at him. Realization dawns on his face and he says, slowly, “It’s possible a spell like that exists.”

“Yep. Peter told me all about it,” Stiles says. He goes over the details of the spell with Deaton. “So first things first: _if_ I was stupid enough to do this, is it even possible? Given the fact that my magic was stripped?”

“Yes. You would, in essence, just be the battery. Peter himself, as uncomfortable a prospect as that is, would be the one doing the actual magic.”

Stiles nods and lets out a breath. “He says it would only last a few days.”

For several long minutes, Deaton just examines the spell. He pulls out two different dusty old books, and starts looking things up. After what seems like an eternity, Deaton says, “Yes, I believe that’s accurate. It would have degraded over time. If it had been done on the first full moon after his death, which is what the spell was probably designed for originally, it would have been permanent. Or at least lasted long enough that it would have seemed that way. Originally it could have lasted for years or even decades. But by now, when all that’s left is bones . . . I’d say it would last three, four days maximum.”

“And since I actually learned my lesson about asking for details in Oregon, are we talking about three days and then he drops dead? Or would he start to like rot or something?”

A slight smile touches Deaton’s face. “He wouldn’t decay, physically, but he would start to weaken, yes. I imagine that would start to happen somewhere on the second or third day.”

“Okay.” Stiles bites his lip. “So it would actually do what he said it would do.”

“Yes. But . . .” Deaton seems to be considering his words very carefully. “That doesn’t mean that, once he was back, he couldn’t find some way to extend his lifespan. There are numerous ways that could be done. This spell, specifically, would only bring him back for a few days. But a lot can happen in a few days, Stiles.”

“Like . . . what sort of things?” Stiles asks.

“Elixir of life. Philisopher’s stones. Unicorn blood.”

“Did I just step into Harry Potter?”

Deaton looks amused. “She did her research, that’s true. But yes, it is the same type of thing. He’d be in a constantly decaying body, but there would be plenty of ways to keep it whole. So be very, very careful about this, Stiles, if that’s what you decide to do.”

“Not gonna give me advice one way or another, then?” Stiles asks.

“I thought I just did,” Deaton says. “I won’t tell you what to do, Stiles. That’s a choice you’re going to have to make for yourself.”

“Okay.” Stiles chews this over. “Yeah, okay. Thanks.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles spends pretty much all day on the phone or on his computer. He calls everyone he can think of, looks up records of every theft that happened in the last twenty-five years that got reported to the police that he can access. His father pulls strings to get more records. He even manages to coax Peter into providing a list of some of the possibilities, so they can go through them and see if anything matches the information they have.

“Some of these things _are_ worth that much,” Sheriff Stilinski says, skimming down the list. “Did he say where they were?”

“He said that some of them were lost in the fire, some of them got fenced to various sources, and some of them are in a safe deposit box in a bank in Los Angeles, which only he can access, due to the agreement with the bank.” Stiles frowns. “What happens when that sort of thing happens, when someone dies?”

“It’d be covered in their will,” Tom says. “And since Peter was never technically declared dead . . .”

Stiles chews on his lip. “Maybe we can look up some of the people he stole from. Check their financials to see if they’ve made any large, dodgy payments lately.”

“There’s no way we’d get a warrant for that,” Tom says. “Even if we did, it’d take too long. We don’t have time.”

That’s exactly the problem. The clock is ticking, and Stiles feels every second go by with increasing urgency. Peter hadn’t brought up the resurrection again, when he’d gone into a meditative trance to ask him for the list of possibilities. But Stiles is pretty sure that he’s not going to get any sleep tonight, whether he decides to do it or not.

If he doesn’t bring Peter back tonight, he’ll have lost his chance. And after that, they’ll have less than twenty-four hours to figure out how to get Malia. And given that they’re no closer now than they were after the last twenty-four hours . . .

The pack is hovering, because they knows he’s anxious. He shoves a quick dinner down his throat and then goes back into the study to keep looking through the information on stolen artifacts that they’ve managed to gather. It’s fully dark now, and he can hear the others wandering around downstairs, but the den is mostly quiet.

He’s not sure if he falls asleep or just sinks into a trance from the fruitless work, but he finds Peter sitting in one of the armchairs next to him, just watching him.

“Stiles,” he says, “we’re out of time.”

“I can’t,” Stiles says.

“Why not?” Peter asks.

“Because I’m scared,” Stiles blurts out. “I’m scared of you, okay? I’m afraid of what you would do if you came back. And don’t give me that ‘it would only be for a few days’ bullshit. We both know that once you were back, you could find a way to stay.”

“I don’t want to,” Peter says. “Not anymore. You have no idea how painful life is, compared to the alternative.”

“But why would I believe you?” Stiles asks. “I have no reason to trust anything you say. You could play me like a harmonica and I wouldn’t even necessarily know. You’re better at that shit than I am. I’ve got my skills, but this . . . playing of people, it’s not one of mine. I have all these different, conflicting emotions and I can’t . . . I can’t sort them out. I’m scared of you but I’m guilty about killing you, I feel responsible for your daughter, I hate you for what you did to me but I’m grateful to you for the power you gave me. How can I begin to know what the right thing to do is?”

“You can’t,” Peter says. “None of us can. What do you _want_ to do?”

Stiles thinks about this. He thinks about it for a long time. “I want to believe you,” he says. “I want to believe that there’s some, some good in you somewhere. Because I know that I’m so much like you. And I know what happened to you was awful, and God, if I lost my pack I would go just as crazy, maybe worse. I’ve heard Derek talk about the, the way you were before the fire, and I want to believe that the uncle he loved still exists.”

“Then believe me,” Peter says. “Stiles. Believe that I want to help my daughter. It’s the only thing I want.”

Stiles is on the verge of saying something else when a voice calls his name, and he startles, sitting up. His arm jerks and flails and he knocks over a stack of books.

“Hey, you okay?” Scott asks him, bending over to pick them up.

“Yeah, I . . . I think I fell asleep while I was doing research.” Stiles yawns and rubs both hands over his face. He feels slow and stupid.

“There’s fresh coffee downstairs if you want it,” Scott says.

“Yeah, okay,” Stiles says. “Or maybe I’ll just go for a walk. Get some fresh air.”

“You want me to come?” Scott asks.

“No, I just want to clear my head,” Stiles says. “I’ll stay on the property, I promise.”

“Okay, if you’re sure,” Scott says. Stiles goes down the stairs and grabs his jacket before heading out. He’s sure that a couple of the pack will follow him, as they’re wont to do. He’s never really alone anymore, and it’s something that’s fine with him.

He climbs over the electric fence, since that’s turned off at the moment, and walks aimlessly. He has no idea what time it is or how long he was asleep, but it’s late enough to be fully dark, and the moonlight shines down brightly. He can see fine, even without werewolf vision. Without really meaning to, he winds up at Peter’s grave.

“Of course I’m here,” he says. “My subconscious is a bitch.”

“We’re out of time,” Peter says, standing beside him like he’s always been there.

Stiles finds that he doesn’t question Peter’s presence in his waking state, even though he’s not meditating. The bond strengthens the more they use it; it was only a matter of time before Peter could communicate with him while he’s awake. He finds himself wondering what they’re going to do about _that_. If he doesn’t bring Peter back, he’s going to have one pissed off shade in his head. And then if Malia dies, what then? Will they go ahead and exorcise him? Will they even be able to do it at that point?

One good thing about bringing Peter back is that then, at least, he’ll be out of Stiles’ head. He’ll be able to _sleep_. He won’t have to worry about Peter possessing him or whatever else he might be able to do as the connection strengthens. The idea of a night’s sleep without weirder-than-usual dreams and arguments with the man he killed is better than anything else he can think of. It’s not a great solution, bringing Peter back to life, but it _is_ a solution.

A cloud drifts over the moon, and he stares down into Peter’s grave, stares at the bones it contains. “I don’t know what to do,” he whispers.

“Stiles,” Peter says, “think of Malia. She’s alone and she’s frightened and I need to help her. I did terrible things in my life. Let me do one thing, just one thing right. Help me save my daughter.”

Stiles takes in a deep, shuddering breath. The cloud moves, and sudden moonlight floods the clearing, directly down into Peter’s grave. It’s like a sign from the Heavens, and in that moment he makes his decision. It’s probably a stupid decision, but even after all this time, what Stiles hates more than anything else is sitting around doing nothing.  

“This probably won’t even work,” Stiles says, but he’s climbing down into the grave. It takes more effort than it should. He _definitely_ needs to get some sleep. He gives another shudder a little as his hand touches Peter’s skeleton. “I mean, there’s nothing to work with here, just a bunch of bones, so don’t blame me if nothing happens . . .”

But somehow, the skeletal hand seems perfectly curved to fit right around his wrist. Stiles stares at it with a feeling of confused serenity.

Then the moonlight really hits him.

He’s been electrocuted before, taken a few hits from a taser, and he’s had some powerful magic run through him. This feels similar, less painful but bigger somehow, scarier, like it’s something he can’t contain or control. His eyes shine bright crimson into the darkness, the moon goes behind another cloud, and it’s over.

“Stiles?” Isaac is leaning over the edge of the grave. He’d obviously been following him at a safe distance, and decided to come over and see what was up when Stiles hopped down into the grave. “Are you . . . holy _crap_.”

Stiles doesn’t look up at him, because he’s looking at Peter. He’s a little dirty, a little pale, but he’s unmistakably, whole and undamaged, Peter Hale. “Oh,” he says, feeling the fear he’s been trying to push back come rushing back into his stomach. He scrambles up and out of the grave before he can say anything else.

“What the _fuck_ ,” is Danny’s opinion, because he obviously doesn’t think Isaac’s language is strong enough. “Is that – wasn’t he – ”

Peter coughs a little and shakes himself. “That was much less painful than anticipated,” he says, reaching up to hoist himself out of his grave. Both werewolves hastily back away, dragging Stiles with them.

“What did he do?” Isaac asks.

“It’s fine.” Stiles knows his voice sounds thin and reedy, and he tries to put some conviction in it. “I did it. It’ll only last a couple days. Enough time to find out what the Falcon wants, and get Malia out of there.”

Both Isaac and Danny are staring at him, but they’re betas by nature, and they don’t argue. They both give Peter some wary looks, but then Stiles notices that he can’t seem to make his way out of the grave on his own, and he walks over. He kneels down and is suddenly desperately tired. Black spots dance in his vision, and he nearly keels over right into the grave with Peter. When the others see the trouble he’s having, they come over and haul Peter up onto the ground with them.

“Thank you,” Peter says, with a polite, charming smile. He’s completely naked except some fragments of cloth from the outfit he was buried in, and seems either unaware or unashamed of this. Danny has a little pink flush on his cheeks, and is trying not to look. Isaac clearly doesn’t care.

“Here.” Stiles shrugs out of his jacket and hands it to Peter. It’s not long enough to cover anything worth covering, and if anything, he looks even sillier once he’s wearing it.

Peter is still weak and wobbly, and after some hesitation, Danny gets an arm under Peter’s shoulders, helping him stumble along. “This isn’t gonna be pretty when we get inside, is it,” he says, stealing a glance at Stiles.

“No, it’s going to be horrible, because I really should have mentioned this to some people before I did it,” Stiles mumbles. Then they’re inside, and Isaac is calling out that everyone should probably get down there, and the room is flooding with people. Several people see Peter at once; half of them recognize him on sight, and a lot of shouting begins.

Stiles lets them have a minute, then raises his hand. Everyone stops shouting, although Allison is a little bit behind the others, leaving a silence in which her voice rings clearly. “ – that _thing_ doing in our den?”

“Nice to see you again too, sweetheart,” Peter says, which absolutely doesn’t help the situation, and two seconds later he has a crossbow bolt leveled at his throat.

“Okay, everyone, let’s all take a breath,” Stiles says, seeing Allison’s finger tightening on the trigger. “For those of you don’t know him, yes, this is Peter Hale. Yes, he was dead a few minutes ago. I’m the one responsible for bringing him back.” Several heads swing around so they’re staring at him rather than at Peter. “It’s a temporary spell that will keep him here for, Deaton says, three or four days, maximum.”

“What in God’s name possessed you to think that this was an idea you should even _consider_?” Lydia asks tartly.

Stiles swallows and says, slowly, “Look, guys, this isn’t the same Peter that did . . . those things back then. This is the old Peter, Derek’s uncle.”

“Uh, and we know that how?” Lydia demands. “We’re supposed to take his word for it?”

“No,” Stiles says. “We’ll judge it by his actions.”

“Like, the actions he took to con you into _raising him from the dead_?” Scott asks incredulously.

“Speaking of which,” Peter interrupts calmly, “I find myself starving. Is there anything to eat? And some pants would be nice; I don’t imagine you all like looking at my naked ass any more than I like putting it on display.”

Everyone gapes at him. Derek mumbles, “Jesus, Uncle Peter.”

“Derek!” Peter sees him at the back of the crowd, and starts over. Several people snarl, but Derek doesn’t flinch, and Allison’s crossbow never wavers. “It’s good to see you, nephew. We should talk later. When we don’t have an audience.”

“Sure,” Derek says, shaking his head. “Why not. I’ll go get you some clothes.”

Since everyone seems to be done yelling for the moment, Stiles pushes Peter into the kitchen and shoves him into a chair. He ignores the eyes he can feel boring into his back while he gets a few Tupperwares full of leftovers out of the refrigerator. “Spaghetti okay?” he asks.

“Fine by me,” Peter says.

Stiles puts the spaghetti in the microwave and turns to look at the pack, who are clustered in the kitchen, half of them glaring, the other half still too confused or surprised to be angry. He knows that people like Mac and Danny don’t really _get_ this, don’t understand what Peter is to those who were there in the beginning.

It’s Allison who finally speaks. “Give me one reason not to put a bolt in his throat right now.”

Stiles can tell that ‘because I’m the alpha’ isn’t the answer anybody needs to hear right now. He’s also keenly aware that Peter is watching him, and he doesn’t want to show weakness in front of Peter. He’s still not entirely sure what to believe about Peter’s motives, but he needs to be on guard, no matter what he believes it. “For Malia’s sake,” he says.

“We could have found another way.”

“We were running out of time. This is the quickest, easiest way to deal with this, and I couldn’t let my personal feelings about Peter get in the way of that.”

Derek comes back into the room then, and scowls ferociously when he hears this, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he tosses a pair of jeans and a T-shirt to Peter, who complacently stands up and starts getting dressed.

“And what about our feelings?” Allison asks. “What about me and Scott and Lydia? You’re not the only one in this pack that Peter hurt.”

Stiles breathes out slowly. The microwave beeps, and it makes him jump. He gets the dish out and puts it in front of Peter, who digs in without caring about the argument that’s going on around him. After a moment to gather himself, Stiles says, “I should have talked to you guys before I did it. I can’t argue with that, and I’m sorry. But I didn’t – I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

“Let’s try to work out why,” Lydia says. “What did he say to you?”

“A lot,” Stiles says. “A lot about how he wants to help his daughter, and how he knows he made mistakes. About how we’re running out of time.”

“I don’t like this,” Scott says, brow furrowing. “He’s using your guilt against you.”

“Yeah, probably,” Stiles agrees, and _that’s_ clearly the wrong thing to say, because a bunch of people start shouting again. He puts up with it for a minute, and his head is starting to throb and he just wants to crawl into bed for a while. “Okay, enough!” He takes a deep breath and lets it out. “Yes, I’m tired, and yes, Peter probably did emotionally manipulate me to a certain degree, but he didn’t _force_ me to do this. Whether any of us like it or not, there’s an innocent sixteen-year-old girl who we have failed to rescue any other way. Peter’s here for the next few days, but _yes_ , we will take every available precaution.”

Everyone has fallen silent. Stiles rubs a hand over his face. “I need to get some sleep. Let Peter eat whatever he wants, let him use the shower, give him a book or something. Work out some shifts so two people can be watching him at all times, and that means at _all_ times, in the shower, on the toilet, presuming zombies need to use a toilet, et cetera. If he misbehaves, feel free to beat him into the ground. Don’t let him fucking _talk_ to you. Think of him like Loki in the Avengers. There’s a reason they gagged him at the end.” One more breath. “Once I’ve gotten some rest, we’ll work up a plan to rescue Malia. Any questions?”

There’s a round of shaking heads from the pack. Scott and Derek still look pretty unhappy, and Allison is just staring hard at Peter, her gaze never leaving him even though he’s clearly more interested in the spaghetti than in any of them.

“One more thing,” Stiles says, and jerks the bowl away from Peter so the werewolf looks up at him. “I killed you once.” He jabs his finger right at Peter’s breastbone. “I didn’t like doing it and it fucked me up proper, but I did it. That was three years ago, and I’m a hell of a lot more dangerous now than I was then. I _will not_ hesitate to cut your fucking throat if you put a single toe out of line, and you _will_ be going back into the ground in three days whether you want to or not. Clear?”

Peter smiles. “I do like you, Stiles.”

Stiles flinches back despite every effort. Scott puts a hand on the back of Peter’s head and slams his face into the table. While Peter is still reeling and holding both hands to his bleeding nose, Stiles turns and walks away.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, let's kick this into high gear! =D

Stiles takes a quick shower and heads into the guest room to get some sleep. The others will be in and out of the bedroom, so he doesn’t want to sleep in there. A minute later, Derek pads in on four feet, jumps up onto the bed with him, and curls up around him protectively.

Stiles drifts a little while, thinking about everything that’s happened over the past hour. There’s no point in dwelling on what’s done. Peter’s here, and now they have to deal with that. It’s only for two days, maybe three, and then he’s going back in his grave. How much trouble can he cause in forty-eight hours?

Probably, Stiles thinks, he can tear the entire town down around his ears in four, let alone forty-eight.

He sleeps soundly (like the dead, he thinks somewhat uncomfortably) despite his restless thoughts. He’s exhausted from the past week of restless sleep and vivid dreams. When his alarm clock goes off four hours later, he staggers out of bed and back into some clothes.

All thoughts of ‘how much trouble can Peter cause’ are answered as soon as he goes downstairs and finds Peter duct-taped to a chair in the kitchen, with another piece of shiny tape over his mouth. He looks somewhat long-suffering. Scott and Isaac are sitting in the kitchen with him, playing cards but watching him.

“What’d he do?” Stiles asks, going for the coffee.

Scott scowls. “He wouldn’t stop _looking_ at Allison.”

Stiles sighs and pours himself some coffee, then yanks the tape off Peter’s mouth and raises his eyebrows at the man.

Peter licks his lips to moisten them and says, “I was not _looking_ at Allison in any way, but I understand that certain people in this pack are probably a little oversensitive about my presence.” He looks at Scott and adds, “I forgive you.”

Scott’s scowl turns from mutinous to murderous. Isaac grips his shoulder. A few other people are drifting into the kitchen now, people who obviously decided they wanted to be around in case Peter did something stupid.

“For future reference,” Peter adds, clearly unfazed by the look on Scott’s face, or the way Allison is yet again brandishing her crossbow, “if you’re going to duct-tape someone’s mouth shut, put the tape all the way around the head, over the hair. Tape is susceptible to moisture. If I licked at my lips from the inside enough, I could have easily gotten it off.” He gives the three of them a sunny smile. “Just so you know.”

Isaac looks at him flatly, then looks at Stiles and says, “You’d think a guy who’s been dead for the last three years and just came back would be less suicidal.”

“Jesus, I can’t deal with this until I’ve had coffee,” Stiles says, downing half the first mug in two swallows.

He drinks two mugs of coffee and makes himself some frozen waffles. It’s the middle of the night, so nobody else is around to ask for breakfast. He would have slept all night if he could have, but with Peter on a definite clock, he doesn’t want to waste time. “Okay. The goal here is to get Peter to the Falcon, find out what they want, and deliver it before anybody finds out I did the stupidest thing imaginable and resurrected his sorry ass. There will be _no_ mention of this to my father or Chris Argent unless it becomes absolutely necessary. Clear?”

Everyone gives each other glances, and then they uncomfortably agree. “So when are we leaving?” Peter asks, smiling up at him.

“Now,” Stiles says. He takes out his Leatherman and starts cutting Peter free.

“I’m going, too,” Scott says.

Stiles thinks about telling him it’s not necessary, and realizes that it would be a long, pointless argument. So he just nods. Allison, of course, also wants to go, and Stiles knows better than to think that Derek will let him out of his sight. Erica’s hanging close, too, and the entire time during their conversation, Lydia is just giving Peter an icy stare.

“Such a large, loyal pack you’ve gathered,” Peter muses.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Scott says. “You won’t be stealing us from him.”

Peter sighs. “I really have no intention to try to steal the alpha power back from Stiles.”

“Of course not,” Lydia says, never looking away from him. “On the upside, we don’t actually care about your intentions, because you won’t be getting anywhere with them.”

“How about we choose a number of people that will fit in the car,” Stiles suggests.

“We can all fit if we go as wolves,” Scott says.

Peter smiles at him. “Little Scotty learned the full shift, too.”

“Yeah, it’s amazing how much better I got at the whole werewolf deal once I had a decent alpha,” Scott says.

“You’re welcome,” Peter replies.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Allison asks.

“Well, I’m the reason Stiles is your alpha, after all.” Peter helps himself to a mug of coffee and watches the others over the rim of the mug. He’s clearly enjoying himself. “If it had followed the bloodlines, it would have gone to Derek, but, well, Derek. I decided willing the power to Stiles was a better choice. For all of you.”

“See, and this is why you shouldn’t let him talk,” Stiles says loudly, “because less than forty-eight hours ago you told me that you had no idea whether or not it was possible for me to become an alpha, and if you had done that, it hadn’t been on purpose. Jesus, did you think I would forget that?”

Peter just shrugs, as if to say ‘it was worth a try’.

Stiles sets his jaw and says, “Scott, Allison, Derek. You’re with me. Remember, this shouldn’t be dangerous. All we’re doing is finding out what it is the Falcon wants. I think the four of us can handle Peter. Lydia, Erica, you two can have the Peter-watch-shift after I get home and decide I need to get more sleep. Okay?” he adds. Lydia nods, and after a few moments, Erica does too. Stiles points to Peter and says, “Finish your coffee. We’re leaving.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” Peter says, saluting him with the mug before draining it.

A few minutes later, they’re in the car. Peter is in the front passenger seat, primarily so Allison can keep her crossbow pointed at the back of his neck. He points out that it’s unnecessary; she smiles sweetly and says, “So was attacking me after you killed my aunt.”

Stiles has let Derek drive, so he can sit in the back between Scott and Allison, which makes him feel safe and only moderately unhinged. It takes about forty minutes to reach the barn. They don’t make any effort to be stealthy, since there’s no stealth to be had. Stiles goes first, knocking sharply on the door while Derek keeps hold of Peter, his uncle’s arm twisted up around his back.

One of the Falcon’s men opens the door and looks him up and down. “You again,” he says.

“Me again,” Stiles agrees. “Peter Hale wasn’t setting foot on my territory without an armed escort. We’ve had our differences in the past.” He thumbs over his shoulder at Peter. After a few moments to think, the man stands back and lets them in.

Malia is exactly where she was when Chris came in, and Peter moves past Stiles, kneeling down by the circle. He places his hand against the invisible barrier. It ripples, and then he’s able to reach through and stroke her hair. She whimpers and flinches away. “Hush, now, it’s all right,” Peter says, more tenderly than Stiles would have ever imagined. “There, go on,” he says, as Malia cranes her head towards him, trying to catch his scent. “Do you remember me, Malia?”

“So, Mr. Hale, you’ve finally decided to join us.” The Falcon comes from the back of the barn. She frowns slightly at the cluster of Stiles’ pack near the door, but apparently decides she doesn’t care.

“Yes, and I don’t appreciate this.” Peter’s tone is light, but he doesn’t move from Malia’s side, and there’s something ugly in his gaze when he looks up. That’s the Peter that Stiles knows, the Peter that murdered six people to get revenge for his family. In that moment, Stiles writes off the possibility that Peter had somehow arranged this. There’s a cold rage that permeates him that Stiles doesn’t think could be faked. “Tell me what you want.”

The Falcon glances over at the others, then approaches Peter. She leans in close and murmurs something into his ear.

Peter’s face is blank, and for a minute Stiles is worried that he doesn’t even know what it is. But what he says is, “Why on earth would you think that I have that?”

“Well, you are the one who stole it,” the Falcon says.

“You think I _kept_ it? A commodity like that? I would’ve had to have been suicidal.”

“You’re still the person who stole it, which means you must know what happened to it afterwards, and you can get it back for me.”

Peter turns away from Malia and holds up a finger. “In point of fact, I have no idea what happened to it. I had a partner on that job, and she double-crossed me and kept the entire haul.”

“So go get it from her.”

Peter grimaces. “That might not be quite as easy as you’re imagining it to be.”

“You’re making a mistake if you think I care about how easy or difficult it will be,” the Falcon says. “If you want your daughter to live, you’ll do it.”

Peter stares hard at her, then nods. “Fine.”

“You have forty-eight hours.”

“Are you joking?” Peter stares at her incredulously. “It’ll take me that long to _find_ her, let alone convince her to give the item in question to me, and that’s if she kept it herself. Just to get to and from her usual haunts will take at least forty-eight hours.”

Stiles looks up at this, thinking that the clock is already ticking on Peter’s life, regardless of how much time the Falcon gives them. He’s certainly not about to bring that up here, and clearly Peter isn’t either.

“And what sort of time frame do you feel would be acceptable?” the Falcon asks, somewhat sarcastically.

“Five days, minimum,” Peter says. “With the option of longer, if she no longer has it and I have to continue tracking it down.” He sees the woman’s eyes narrow and says, “Come on. You’ll get your payday, but you have to give me time to deliver. What’s your other option? Kill Malia right now and cut your losses? I can do this for you, but you _have_ to give me time.”

After a tense moment, the Falcon nods. “Five days,” she says.

“Good.” Peter kneels back down, reaches out to Malia again. She cringes a little, but allows him to stroke her hair. “I’ll be back for you soon,” he says. “I promise.” With that, he stands up and walks out of the barn. Stiles gives the Falcon an uneasy look, but follows Peter, with the others on his heels.

“There’s an all-night diner not too far away,” he says, giving Peter an uneasy look. “Are you . . . okay?” he ventures.

“Yes, I’m fine,” Peter says, briskly. “Looking forward to having a crossbow bolt pointed at my head for the ride.”

Fifteen minutes later, they’re sitting in the diner. It’s two AM, and the place is dead empty. Stiles orders coffee. Scott and Allison get a milkshake to share. Derek just wants water, and Peter gets a ridiculous-sounding breakfast combo.

“What?” he says, when several of them give him looks. “If I’m going to have a second chance at life, might as well enjoy it.”

“Never mind that,” Stiles says. “So what are we after?”

“It’s called the Crown of Erceldoune,” Peter says. “It’s said to endow the user with the ability to tell the truth. I wouldn’t know; I never wore it.”

“I wasn’t aware that telling the truth was considered an ability,” Scott says, somewhat confused.

Peter waves this aside. “It’s not that it keeps one from telling a lie. There are other methods for that. The Crown of Erceldoune – well, let’s say that you were wearing it, and I asked you what I got for my eighth birthday. You have no idea, of course, but if you were wearing the crown, whatever came out of your mouth would be correct. I could ask you, for example, who the next president would be, and you would know. I could ask you how long you were going to live, or whether or not God is real, and – ”

“Yeah, we get the idea,” Stiles says. “Jesus. That’s . . . freaky.”

“Indeed,” Peter says. “It’s said to drive whoever wears it mad, but again, I wouldn’t know. I had no interest in The Truth. The man we stole it from was a religious fanatic who was using it for his little cult. I doubt it’s a good idea for him to recover it, but I care more about Malia than I do about that.”

“Okay. And this partner of yours?”

“Lea.” Peter lets out a wistful sigh.

Everyone at the table exchanges a somewhat disturbed look at his tone of voice. “I, uh, I take it you two were an item?” Derek asks, in a tone of voice that suggests he really doesn’t want to know.

“Mm? Oh, yes. She’s the most beautiful woman I ever met. Not exactly book-smart, but very cunning, and a master of deception without ever outright lying. Truly, an unfair combination.” Peter digs into his pancakes. “She’s a sidhe from the winter court.”

“You were fucking a faerie?” Allison asks, her tone a mixture of awe and horror.

“Please, you make it sound so uncouth. Lea and I were lovers.”

“Which is why she stabbed you in the back and stole the crazy-valuable magical artifact from you,” Stiles says.

Peter shrugs. “We’d had a fight.”

Derek rubs both hands over his face. “So we need to go into faerie land. Find this faerie lady that’s probably still angry at you over whatever it is you did back then, and convince her to give us this priceless artifact.”

“Well, _you_ don’t need to do any of it,” Peter says. “It’s my problem. I’ll handle it.”

“Yeah, right!” Stiles barks out a laugh. “If you think for an instant that you’re leaving our sight while you’re back, you’re a lot stupider than you act. No. What I said last night holds true. You will be watched by at least two members of my pack the _entire_ time you are back among the living.”

“As you say,” Peter says, and digs into his breakfast.

“So what now?” Allison asks Stiles. “We’ve only ever dealt with faeries on our own turf. Where do we even start looking for her?”

“I do know most of her usual haunts,” Peter says, answering even though the question wasn’t directed at him. Allison gives him an annoyed look, which doesn’t faze him in the slightest. “As for how we get there, we’re going to need somebody to open a Way for us.”

“I think Dr. Deaton can do that,” Scott says. “You want me to call him?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “Thanks.”

He finds himself nodding off a little as Allison drinks her milkshake and watches Peter with narrowed eyes, and Peter continues to plow through his pancakes and bacon. Derek has his hand moving in circles on Stiles’ back, idly rubbing a thumb over the back of his neck. Stiles startles awake when Peter says, “So, I hear you two are a couple.”

“What? Yeah,” Stiles says. “It’s complicated.”

Peter raises his eyebrows, and Stiles glances over at Derek to tacitly ask how much he’s willing to tell his uncle. But Derek has gotten a lot more secure in his relationship with Stiles, more settled in his skin, over the last year. So he’s the one who answers, in a steady tone. “I’m his lupa. But I’m not interested in sex, so we don’t have it.”

“You’re missing out,” Peter says, looking amused.

Derek shrugs. “I figured that I’d leave the women for you, since you seem to like them so much.”

“How thoughtful of you, nephew,” Peter says, smirking.

Stiles rubs a hand over his face and decides that he’ll stay out of it. Derek’s fully capable of fending Peter off on this subject. He looks up at Scott comes back to the table. “He said he can do it,” Scott says. “He’s going to get some things together and says he’ll meet us at the den. But he says it’s difficult, and he doesn’t have enough power to send the entire pack through.”

“Mm,” Stiles says, thinking this over. He hadn’t figured they would bring everyone, in any case, although the pack hates being split up. “Did he say how many?”

“He said five, maximum.”

Stiles makes a face. It’s fewer than he’d like. Peter sees this and says complacently, “It’s probably better to go with a smaller group anyway, don’t you think? You don’t want to put your pack in danger.”

“Decisions about my pack won’t go through you, for one thing,” Stiles snaps at him. “Secondly, keep in mind that I have two things to worry about here. Dealing with whatever faeries and creatures we might run into in Faerie land, and having pack members available to watch _you_ , and make sure you don’t get up to anything.”

Peter raises his hands in mock surrender, which just irritates him more. Stiles seethes in silence for a moment, until Allison says, “Well, I can’t go. The Argents have a truce with Queen Mab, and we’re not allowed on her territory unless specifically summoned there. Even though I’d technically be going as your enforcer and not as a hunter, it’s not something that would make us look friendly.”

“And nobody wants to piss off Mab,” Scott says, his forehead wrinkling.

“Me, Derek, and Peter already make three,” Stiles says, mostly to himself. He knows better than to think he could leave Derek behind, and in truth he doesn’t really want to. He depends too much on him for stability. “That only leaves me with two people to bring.”

“You’ll want people who are good in a fight,” Scott says.

Stiles is a little relieved that Scott isn’t saying he wants to come along, since he doesn’t really want Scott along. He doesn’t want Peter anywhere near Scott. He’s also thinking that he’s going to value brains as much as brawn. If Lydia is willing to come, and put up with Peter’s bullshit, he definitely wants her there. She’s by far the most well-versed in faerie lore, and can probably help them avoid stepping on any obvious land mines.

As far as fighters go, Isaac’s the best among the remaining candidates, but he can also be somewhat short-tempered. Boyd is a good combination of muscle and mind, but Boyd’s got such a strong connection to his family. Stiles isn’t sure that he wants to make him leave Beacon Hills and miss most of his family vacation. Erica would be happy to go, will probably try to _insist_ on going, for that matter, but she’s impulsive and hot-headed and not at all a good mix with faeries. As for Mac and Danny, they just aren’t fighters; they’ve got the basics down but neither of them really enjoy it.

“Lydia and Isaac,” he finally says, as Peter mops up the last of the syrup on his plate. “Presuming Lydia’s willing. If not, Isaac and Boyd.”

There’s a moment while the others are clearly thinking about it, and then there’s a round of nods, agreement with his choices.

“Okay, let’s head back, then,” Stiles says, getting up. Derek takes out his credit card and heads up to the front of the diner to pay their bill. He also drops a twenty on the table for the waitress. He always likes to tip with cash, since he thinks that’s a more sure way of making sure it gets to the right person or people.

Scott drives on the way back, so Allison can continue to point her crossbow at Peter, and Stiles can curl up next to Derek. He knows that it’s going to be a long few days. With the time limit imposed by the resurrection spell, they can’t indulge in a good night’s sleep.

That reminds him of something. He shakes himself back awake and says, “Why did you ask the Falcon for five days? You’re only going to be around – you said two or three, Deaton said four at the outside.”

“Always take as much as you can get,” Peter says complacently. “She was willing to give five days, so I took them.” When he sees Scott scowling, he remarks, amused, “My physical presence was only necessary to find out what we were after. Let’s say I drop dead tomorrow. You might still be able to retrieve the crown and secure Malia’s freedom. But you might need five days to do it.”

Stiles nods slowly. That makes sense to him, so he just says, “Okay. But one way or another, promise me that when this is over, I’m going to see your body put back in the ground. Your _dead_ body.”

“I so solemnly swear,” Peter says, with a quiet smile.

“Good enough,” Stiles says, and closes his eyes for the rest of the ride.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

When he gets back to the den, it’s a hive of activity. Deaton is there, and he’s gathering some supplies in the clearing out behind the house. Stiles goes to say hi, leaving Peter with the rest of the pack. Hopefully, he can manage not to antagonize them for five minutes. Deaton glances up as he approaches and gives him a nod of greeting. Stiles is grateful that he doesn’t say anything judgmental about Peter’s return.

“Do you know where in Faerie you need to go?” is what he asks.

“Peter does,” Stiles says.

“Then I need to speak with him, sooner rather than later,” Deaton says. “I’ve begun the preparations, but opening a Way is difficult, and I know we’re on a time limit but I’d prefer not to be rushed.”

Stiles nods. “Scott said you could only send a few people.”

“I’d prefer to do four,” Deaton says. “I can probably do five if you really needed me too, but I wouldn’t be able to make any guarantees.”

Stiles grimaces. He hates the sound of ‘no guarantees’ during interdimensional transportation, but he also hates the idea of only getting to bring two people to watch his back _and_ keep an eye on Peter, while dealing with possibly hostile faeries. “Is there any way, any way at all, to change that? It’s a matter of power, right? Could we supply you with some sort of, of magical battery?”

There’s a pause while Deaton continues to review the book he’s leafing through, and then he looks up. “The only way to put more power into the spell is if there was another sorcerer who could do it with me cooperatively. I can call Jackson, if you’re willing.”

Stiles takes a breath and lets it out. There are days when he hates the idea of Jackson ever getting his powers back, but there are also days when he knows that the teenager is different from how he used to be. He had helped them in Oregon without a word of – well, actually, with many words of complaint. Stiles wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. And having Tanya as a little sister had changed him for the better, given him someone to look out for. “Yeah,” he says. “Okay.”

“I’ll give him a call, then,” Deaton says. “If I loosen the binding on his magic and have him pitch in, I can send as many as six, with a guarantee that you’ll all get there intact.”

“Great,” Stiles says. Now he can bring both Isaac and Boyd, presuming they’re both willing. That makes him feel better, to know he’ll have Isaac’s fighting skill but Boyd’s steady presence to lean on.

“One thing to keep in mind, Stiles,” Deaton says. “This is a one way ticket. The spell does two things: it opens a door, and then pushes you through it. The Way will shut behind you. You’re going to have to find your own way back. Now, pretty much any faerie can open a Way and send people to the mortal world – that’s how they get here, after all. But you’re going to have to find someone willing to do it for you.”

Stiles nods. “Unfortunately, we don’t have much choice,” he says, and heads into the house.

The others are already gathering supplies, and everyone is busy. Erica and Danny are currently on Peter-watch, and Stiles sends them out to talk to Deaton about where exactly in Faerie they’re going. After some deliberation, he decides to talk to the others about whether or not they’re willing to go one at a time, because he doesn’t want anyone to have to refuse in front of the others.

He pulls Lydia aside first, into Derek’s studio, which is relatively soundproofed. “So, I’m assembling a crack squad of professionals to take into Faerie with me,” he says.

Lydia tosses her hair and says, “Good luck finding any of those around here.”

Stiles laughs and says, “Seriously, though. I know that you know more about Faerie than any of the rest of us. I’d like you to come, if you’re willing. You don’t have – ”

“Good,” Lydia says briskly. “I was afraid that you wouldn’t ask me to come because you didn’t want me near Peter, and then I’d have to kick your ass. Obviously, I’m going. You’d get yourself killed in Faerie without me.”

Stiles gives her a smile. “Thanks. I mean it. I know that Peter – ”

“I barely knew Peter,” Lydia says. “And to be honest I don’t really remember what happened the night he turned me. Yes, obviously, I was angry at him. But in the long run, my life is so much better now – I hate to take a page out of Derek’s book and say ‘the Bite is a gift’, but – I wouldn’t return it. Peter’s obviously a psycho, and I don’t want to take him out for drinks and a mani-pedi, but I can handle him being here for a few days. I’m more worried about you than about me.”

“With you guys to look out for me, how I can I be anything but fine?” Stiles says, and she gives him a tart, disappointed look. He laughs. “Okay. Go help the others put together what we’ll need to bring, expert.”

She nods and flounces off. He goes to look for Isaac. It takes longer with both him and Boyd, because they don’t know as much about Faerie, and he wants to make sure that they’ve been adequately briefed on the dangers. Most of the things that the pack does, the worst thing that can happen is that they can get killed. In Faerie, that’s one of the least frightening things. In Faerie, you can be _changed_.

But in the end, as he had expected, both of them agree to go. “Duh,” Isaac says, and “I’m with you,” is Boyd’s opinion. He apologizes twice to Boyd about making him miss his spring break with his family, but Boyd waves this off.

Once that’s done, he decides to talk to Erica separately, too, since she’s sure to pitch a fit about not getting to go along. He sends Mac out to relieve her on Peter-watch, and then pulls her aside. “I want you to stay here, okay?” he says, and predictably, her eyes immediately flash gold and she starts to protest. “Erica, I love you, but you’re not the best person to take to Faerie, okay? If I could take as many people as I wanted, I’d bring you. But I’ve only got three cards here, and I have to play them the best I can.”

Erica chews on her lower lip, brooding. “I want to be someone you can rely on,” she says.

“Look, nine times out of ten, you’re my draft pick,” Stiles says. “But you and faeries . . . it just won’t be a good mix, trust me. And that’s not a bad thing. It’s just who you are. I love who you are, I don’t want to change you.”

With a huff, Erica says, “Fine. But you’re making me lemon cookies when you get back to make up for it.”

“Deal,” Stiles says. They shake on it, and she heads back out into the studio. Stiles sighs and takes out his phone. Now comes the _really_ difficult part. He calls his father. He picks up sounding grumpy, at which point Stiles remembers that it’s three AM. “So,” he says, after profuse apologies for calling in the middle of the night, “the Falcon is after something called the Crown of Erceldoune, which is supposedly gives one the ability to know all the truths of the universe, and is currently in the hands of, we think, a faerie lady named Lea.”

“Uh huh.” Sheriff Stilinski sounds unimpressed. “And exactly how did you find that out?”

“I held Peter upside down by his ankles and shook him until the answer fell out,” Stiles says. He doesn’t like lying to his father, but he can’t even begin to guess how he’d react to Peter’s resurrection, and frankly, he just doesn’t have time to deal with it. “I went to the Falcon – ”

“Jesus, really?” Tom says, his voice colored with exasperation.

Stiles ignores this. “And she gave us five days to produce it. So we’re taking a little trip into Faerie, and we’ll be back in a few days. And by ‘we’ I mean about half the pack. Deaton doesn’t have enough power to send everybody.”

“Mm hm,” Tom says. Stiles can practically hear him frowning. “The Falcon just agreed to that?”

“I told her I was working with Peter because he wasn’t allowed on my territory. It seemed to appease her. I mean, she wasn’t allowed to tell me what it was they were after, but since I clearly knew, she didn’t have a problem with it.”

“Okay,” Tom says. “I guess. What aren’t you telling me?”

“No more than usual,” Stiles says. “Hey, I’ll be back in a few days, okay?”

“You’d better be,” Tom says.

“Love you,” Stiles says.

“I love you too, kiddo.”

Stiles says goodbye and hangs up. Then he goes to get ready. They’re heading into winter, but he wants the protection of his leather jacket, so he can’t bring a coat. He puts on a long-sleeved shirt, his chain mail over it, a flannel, and then his red hoodie. Then the jacket. He can barely bend his elbows, but at least he won’t need to be the fighter on this mission. He grabs a hat, scarf, and gloves, and heads back downstairs.

About twenty minutes later, the pack is gathered in the clearing. Jackson has arrived, with Wilma sitting at his feet, tongue lolling in a canine grin. Surprisingly, Peter is scratching the dog behind the ears, and she seems to be enjoying it. “Aren’t dogs supposed to have good instincts about people?” Stiles mutters. Then again, she’s Jackson’s dog, so maybe she just likes assholes.

Lydia has changed and done her hair in a practical braid. She, Isaac, and Boyd, are dressed in heavy clothes. Derek is still wearing his leather jacket, since he scorns winter wear, but he’s at least added a heavy hooded sweatshirt to his ensemble. Someone has found a coat for Peter from somewhere, as well as a scarf and a hat, which makes him look younger than he was and not at all dead.

In addition to that, each of them has a backpack full of supplies. Most of them don’t carry weapons; their teeth and claws are all they need. Lydia is the exception. Stiles knows for a fact that she carries both pepper spray and a taser. “Fight smarter, not harder,” was Lydia’s opinion when they had first talked about it. Stiles, for his part, is carrying two knives and his .38.

Lydia looks up as he enters the clearing, and her face creases into a frown. “You can’t bring that stuff,” she says.

“What? Why not?” Stiles asks.

“You can’t bring steel into Faerie,” she says. “It’s like a declaration of war. You’ll have to leave your chain mail behind, too.”

“Jesus,” Stiles says. He hadn’t even thought about that, but it makes sense. If someone showed up at a werewolf den wearing a silver shirt and carrying a bunch of silver weapons, they would automatically be treated as a hostile intruder. It wouldn’t be any different to wear steel into Faerie. He starts stripping off the layers of clothes so he can take the chain mail off.

“That’s a fine make,” Peter observes, as Stiles hands it off to Allison so she can put it away in the armory.

“Yep,” is all Stiles says in reply. “Shit, I can’t bring any weapons at all?”

Lydia hands him his baseball bat. The metal is all silver, so it’s acceptable, but it’s heavy and he had hoped not to have to bring it. He sighs and straps it to his back. “Okay, faerie 101,” Lydia says, to the group at large. “Don’t eat or drink anything unless we’ve gotten a pledge of safe conduct. Don’t accept or offer any gifts. Don’t make any deals. In fact, if you can avoid it, just don’t even talk to anybody. I’ll handle the talking – at least until we find – ” She pauses here and gives Stiles a questioning look.

“Lea,” he supplies.

“Lea,” Lydia echoes. Then her eyes go wide and she whirls on Peter. “Not _the_ Lea.”

Peter blinks at her guilelessly.

“Oh, no,” Lydia says. “You did not tell us we were going to go see a faerie _lady_. You didn’t think that was important?”

Stiles raises a hand. “Clue in us lesser mortals?”

Lydia takes a deep breath, her hands clenching into fists at her sides, and then she gives a tight little smile. “Leanansidhe. She is a Faerie Lady. Capital letters. A member of the Winter Court. She typically takes the form of a beautiful young woman and tempts mortals into her embrace.”

“Technically, if I may,” Peter interrupts, “Leanansidhe is a _title_. She’s one of many sisters.”

“You screwed a _faerie princess_?” Allison asks, now more aghast than ever.

Peter just shrugs a little and says, “If you’d met her, you’d understand.”

Lydia lets out a slow breath. “Mortal lovers of Leanansidhe are said to live brief, but inspired, lives,” she says. To Peter, she adds, “Too bad you only got half of that bargain.”

Peter shrugs again. “We had a bad break-up.”

Stiles rubs a hand over his face. “What does this mean to us, _practically_?”

“It means that we will have virtually no power in her realm,” Lydia says. “We’re going to have to knock on her door, ask her to give us the Crown of Erceldoune, pretty please, and hope she’s in a giving mood. Or, more likely, we’re going to have to offer something in trade, because bargains with faeries are _always_ a good time.”

“I’ll handle Lea,” Peter says, without any loss of aplomb.

Lydia gives him a skeptical look. Stiles squeezes her shoulder and says, “Remember, guys, we are escorts only. This is Peter’s problem. We’re only going along to make sure he doesn’t turn right around and try to kill us. We’ll get him to Lea, and if he can get the crown from her, back out safely.” To Peter, he adds, “If you can’t satisfy Lea’s demands, Malia’s on your head. I won’t take responsibility for that.”

“Understood,” Peter says, with a nod.

“One more thing,” Deaton says. He holds out an old-fashioned pocket watch that makes Stiles think of the white rabbit in Alice and Wonderland. “Electric currents have a tendency to get corrupted in Faerie. Your electronic watches can’t be trusted, and I’d advise you to leave your cell phones here, because they won’t be able to connect and it can make them short out.”

“Fry their little electronic brains,” Lydia says, with a nod. She had already told the pack to leave their cell phones.

“Since you’re heading into winter, there’s really only twilight and night,” Deaton continues, “and it won’t necessarily match up to the days here. You’ll have to remember to wind this, but it’ll be your best way of keeping track of the time here in our world. I’ve already set it for you.”

Stiles takes it and hands it to Lydia. She tucks it into her bag.

“Look at it this way,” Peter says, “if I drop dead, you’ll know your time is running out.”

“Funny,” Stiles says. “You’re a funny guy.”

“Just an observation,” Peter replies.

Stiles shakes his head and then addresses the pack members who are staying behind. “First things first, I want you to know that I’m not leaving any of you here because you’re not every bit as awesome as the people coming along. We’ve all got different strengths, and that’s part of what makes us powerful. I want you guys to stay on alert while I’m gone, just in case this was some weird, Rube Goldberg-esque strategy to get me off my territory. Stick together, use the buddy system. If we’re not back by about four hours before the deadline, go to the Falcon and tell her everything. We’ll just have to pray that she’ll look on killing Malia as pointless, and let her go.”

Everyone nods, and Stiles gives all of them a quick embrace, or in Scott’s case, a somewhat prolonged embrace with a lot of back pounding. Deaton looks over at them and says, “Are you ready?”

“One more thing,” Stiles says, and turns to the people who are going. “We don’t really know what we’ll be facing, so, regardless of what happens, at all times one person will have responsibility for Peter. If there’s a fight, _he_ is your priority. Make sure he doesn’t sneak off or, you know, kill any of us. Particularly me. Boyd, we’ll start with you and take that in three hour shifts in alphabetical order.” Back to Deaton, he says, “Now we’re ready.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	8. Chapter 8

 

Stiles has seen pictures of the Faerie realms, but most people agree that it’s huge, larger than the Earth, although how that’s possible is something that Stiles tries not to think about. He might have an aneurysm if he gets into the metaphysical logistics of side-by-side realms that don’t actually sit side-by-side.

This portion of Faerie is something he’s never seen in a picture anywhere, and it’s breathtaking.

They’re standing in the middle of a forest clearing. The ground is smooth underneath their feet, and the trees are all some pitch black wood, coated in a layer of ice. The air is utterly still. He can hear the others breathing as they gape at their surroundings. There isn’t even the slightest hint of wind. But the air isn’t stuffy at all. It’s cold and crisp and just vaguely metallic. The sky above them, where they can see it, is the dusky red color that he’s seen during snowstorms. There’s no stars or moon as far as he can see. Lydia has brought two heavy duty battery-powered lanterns that are illuminating their surroundings.

“Wow,” Boyd finally says, summing up all their thoughts.

“God, I’m going to paint the hell out of this place,” Derek murmurs, mostly to himself.

“Oh, you still paint?” Peter asks, in a cheerful tone that breaks the mood up completely. “Good for you. I always thought you were quite talented, you know.”

Stiles lets out a breath and adjusts his packs. “Okay, Peter. Where to?”

“This way.” Peter eases through several of the trees and they come out on a wooden path. He can see that it’s built up over the underbrush – if that’s what layers of broken ice and branches can be called. The path is made of the same black wood, although it’s frost-covered rather than coated in ice. “If Lea is home, then we’re about half a day away.”

“Why so far?” Isaac asks, extending a hand to help Stiles onto the path.

“Much of Faerie has magical protections put in place so nobody can build a Way directly into it,” Peter says, “which is only prudent. Imagine someone opening a wormhole right into the middle of your den. Hardly a comfortable thought, is it? This is as close as we can get and still be on a route that I’m familiar enough with to get us there.”

“So you’ve been here before?” Boyd asks, curious despite himself.

“Oh, yes, in my youth I was a frequent visitor,” Peter says. He starts down the path, and Stiles quickly organizes the others to follow, with Boyd right behind Peter and Derek taking rear guard. “I actually got along fairly well with much of the sidhe.”

“You know, I can totally see that,” Derek says. “You probably all got together and took turns outsmarting and one-upping each other.”

“Something like that, yes,” Peter agrees, with a toothy smile. “Then I met Lea, and I was, of course, instantly smitten.”

“So why’d you break up?” Boyd asks.

“Lea rarely keeps mortal lovers for long,” Peter says. “Each one begins to bore her, in their own way. She and I were together for four months, and she mentioned that that was something of a record for her. Eventually, we commit some offense, real or imagined, and she sloughs us off.”

Stiles wonders exactly how imaginary Peter’s offense was, but decides it’s really none of his business. “Think she’s still angry?”

“Oh, you can never tell, with faeries,” Peter says. “There’s about a fifty percent chance she’ll try to obliterate me on sight, and a fifty percent chance she’ll welcome me with open arms and open legs.”

Derek groans. “Jesus, Uncle Peter, I do _not_ need to hear this.”

Peter just shrugs, completely unfazed by Derek’s reaction. “We didn’t part on the _worst_ of terms. She said she was angry and to punish me, she was going to keep the Crown of Erceldoune. Not being an idiot, I agreed that she was totally justified in doing so, and it looked better on her than on me, anyway. And then we went our separate ways.”

Stiles just shakes his head and decides to save his breath for walking. The others occasionally ask a question or two about what Lea was like, what sort of things that Peter did in Faerie, who he knew. Peter sometimes answers, sometimes deflects, sometimes tells obvious, outrageous lies. Stiles feels weariness creep over him, but the cold does an admirable job of keeping him awake. Derek grumbles about not being able to stay in his fur.

Nearly an hour has gone by when Peter comes to a halt. His head is up, and he scents the air cautiously.

“Trouble?” Stiles asks.

“Yes and no . . .” Peter says, and moments later they’re being swarmed by a group of pixies. They look almost like little glowing lights, zipping in and around the group. Their chittering is so high-pitched that Stiles almost can’t make out what they’re saying.

“Strangers!”

“Who are you?”

“Wolves!”

“He’s not a wolf.”

“I like the colors!”

“Who are you?”

“This smells funny!”

After a moment, Peter’s hand flashes out and he snags one of them out of the air. It shrieks indignantly as the rest of them scatter and vanish into the trees, and he says, “Be quiet, you ninny.”

Little flashes of light come out of his closed fist, and a moment later he opens it to reveal the pixie sitting on his palm with its arms folded over its chest, clearly sulking. It’s birdlike in nature, with glittering white wings, human shaped but with a beak and feathers instead of a face and hair, and barely the size of a paper clip.

“Could you tell me if Leanansidhe is receiving visitors today?” Peter asks it.

“Not gonna tell you nothin’!” the pixie replies.

Peter closes his fist and gives it a quick, hard shake. Squeaks and angry chirps emerge from it, and when he opens his fist again, the pixie is listing side to side drunkenly. “Could you tell me if Leanansidhe is receiving visitors today?” Peter repeats, in the exact same friendly tone of voice.

“Yuh,” the pixie says, sulking.

“Excellent, thank you,” Peter says, and blows on the pixie, knocking it off his palm.

“Was that really necessary?” Lydia asks in an arch tone.

“If you wanted to stop being dive-bombed any time this century, then yes, absolutely,” Peter says. “Pixies are the stupidest creatures in faerie, and they have the attention spans of gnats. It’s virtually impossible to have a conversation with one without applying brute force.”

“You’re an asshole,” Isaac says.

Peter shrugs. “Sticks and stones. So how did you get into this fine pack? You’ve gone and added so many people, Stiles, I hardly know where to begin.”

Stiles sighs as they start walking again. “It’s none of your business why I chose the people I did. They’ve all fit well, and made us stronger, so I guess I knew what I was doing. No thanks to you.”

“Touchy, touchy,” Peter murmurs.

They walk for two more hours in near silence except for an occasional comment. Gradually, the trees become thinner, and they come out onto a vast plain of snow. Or at least, Stiles thinks it’s vast. The light cast by their lanterns only extends about fifty feet in every direction, and outside that is nothing but shadow.

“This is going to be some great fodder for nightmares,” he mutters.

The snow is ankle deep at first, but then gets deeper, and soon they’re slogging through waist deep snow. It’s the worst for Lydia, who’s the smallest by far, and Stiles, who only has moderately increased strength and endurance. Peter seems to find this interesting, commenting on how different a human alpha is from a werewolf alpha.

“How much longer do we have to go through this?” Isaac pants from near the back of the line.

“Not far,” Peter says. “We’re over halfway there.”

“Yeah, but is what comes next going to be any better?” Stiles asks.

Peter smiles. “Depends. How do you feel about heights?”

“Christ,” Stiles says. But they keep going. Given how slow it is, they’re in no danger of falling when they reach the cliffs. Stiles looks down at the sheets of black rock and says, “You’ve _got_ to be kidding me. I don’t think we brought rappelling gear. How do we get down?”

“There’s a way,” Peter says. “It’s not easy. I advise we take a rest.”

Everyone agrees with that. The snow is crusted over with ice that they’ve been breaking apart as they go. It’s too thin to walk or even crawl on, but they’re able to lay on it with their weight distributed. Stiles stares up at the maroon sky and tries not to give away that he’s panting for breath. He’s too cold to sleep, even though he can’t think of anything he would rather do.

Lydia shares out some rations. They can’t have a fire, since all it would do was melt the snow, but she turns the lanterns off to conserve the batteries and breaks out a few glowsticks, surrounding them with eerie green light. Stiles just lays there and eats beef jerky and a peanut butter granola bar, sipping some water.

After about ten minutes of silence, Peter says, “Well, I told you stories about when I met Lea. Your turn, Stiles.”

“Really?” Stiles groans, but decides he would rather do that than listen to Peter talk.

He winds up telling the story of Sebastian Stone. It’s longer than he remembers it being, and he skips over some of the details, like what had happened between Jackson and Lydia, as they’re none of Peter’s business. When he gets to the end, the Stone’s spell in the warehouse and Adrian Harris, Peter frowns.

“You should have just killed him,” he says, when Stiles is finished.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Stone _wanted_ me to kill him. That was the whole point. He would’ve taken Harris’ body and gotten me charged with murder.”

“How? All he had was circumstantial evidence. You owned the weapon, but nobody would have been able to prove that you fired the shot. I’m sure one of your many pack members could have provided you with an alibi.”

“Even if I hadn’t been convicted, it still would’ve ruined my dad’s career, which is sort of what I was trying to avoid,” Stiles says. “Anyway, that’s not the point. I didn’t kill him because that wasn’t the right thing to do.”

“You nearly died,” Peter points out.

Stiles shrugs. “But I didn’t.”

After a moment of pensive silence, Peter turns to Derek and says, “Precisely how many of his stories end that way?”

Looking somewhat sour, Derek says, “A lot more than I’d like.”

“Well, that’s what happens when your first encounter with the supernatural involves like eight brushes with death,” Stiles says. “You stop taking them so seriously.”

“That explains so much about you,” Peter murmurs, and then gets to his feet. “Well, time’s a wasting.”

Stiles nods. He wishes he could have a timer with him, just to keep track better, but it’s impossible. He had resurrected Peter at around nine PM on Saturday night. The Falcon had issued her five-day deadline close to two AM on Sunday morning. Numbers swim in his blurry head as he hauls himself back upwards and immediately breaks through the ice and sinks into the snow.

There’s no talking on the way down the cliff. The path is less than a foot wide at its most generous. Stiles spends all of it hugging the cliff face, inching along sideways at the speed of a tortoise. There are carved handholds, but nothing like a railing or a rope. Derek is right behind Peter now, and Stiles feels fairly safe between Derek and Isaac, with Boyd now on rear guard. But he certainly isn’t _happy_ about it.

It takes nearly two hours, and at that moment Stiles thoroughly understands every corny movie he’s ever seen where someone has thrown themselves down to kiss the ground at the end of a long journey. He has the definite urge to hug the dirt and tell it never to leave him again. He’s just standing there, shaking, when Peter is suddenly next to him. He tenses, but Peter just points, and Stiles looks up.

He can see the path they took from the top, but that’s not what Peter is pointing at. Now that they’re down and he can see the cliffs in their entirety, they’re beautiful. The sheer black rocks are dotted with shining crystals, giving it the appearance of a night sky. A waterfall is cascading down one side, and patterns of blue and green glow through the cliff like an aurora borealis.

Nobody says anything. There are no words to describe its beauty. They all just stand there, staring in awe, for several minutes.

“I can see why you came here so much,” Stiles finally says. “Everything here is so alien, but so _beautiful_.”

“Mm,” Peter agrees. “I always did love it here. I suppose I’ll never see it again.” There’s a quiet depth of emotion in his voice that Stiles can’t pinpoint or put words to. It’s not sadness, or regret. Just a wistful sort of melancholy.

Peter turns away and starts walking again. Everyone would like a break, but nobody’s about to make Peter stay there, after what he said. So they trudge off behind him. There’s only a thin layer of snow here, crunching underneath their boots. He walks along the cliff face for several long minutes, then ducks through a small opening that Stiles hadn’t even noticed.

It’s pitch black inside, and the glowsticks have long since died, so Lydia takes out one of the lanterns again. It’s only necessary for a few minutes. The path slopes down gently and they come out into an ice cave. The walls, the floor, everything is sheer ice that pulses with a steady blue light.

Here, finally, the path is wide enough that they can walk with several abreast at a time. It’s warmer, too, although Stiles can’t fathom how, since they’re literally surrounded by ice. Lydia checks the time and announces that it’s time for her to take over ‘watch Peter’ shift, so they switch places around. “It’s been six hours already?” Stiles asks. “Jesus Christ.”

“It took about three hours to get through the forest, an hour across the snow plain, and then two hours down the cliffs,” Lydia says.

“Don’t worry,” Peter says. “We’re not that far now. If the pixies were right, and Lea is home, we’ll be done with the first leg of our journey soon enough.”

Stiles wants to be grateful for that, but he knows that things are only going to get _more_ dangerous once they’ve made it to Lea, so his thanks are tempered considerably. He sighs and keeps walking. Deaton had finished opening the way at about four AM. If it’s been six hours here, that means it’s ten AM local time, and he had been up since one, on four hours of sleep. He rubs a hand over his face.

Things get warmer still as they continue to walk, and the walls glisten with moisture. They can see quite a ways in the distance, now, and he thinks he sees some people up ahead. It’s hard to tell, as they shift and move in a way that makes them blend in with the walls. “Are those . . .?”

“I’m honestly not sure,” Peter says. “Sylphs, maybe, or winter nymphs.”

“Are they dangerous?” Boyd asks.

“Not always,” Peter says.

The closer they get, the more fascinated Stiles is with watching them. They’re the most beautiful women he’s ever seen, even with their strange coloring, white skin, blue eyes, pale hair. Their features are fine and delicate, and their bodies are lithe and graceful. He finds himself imagining what he could do to one of those bodies, or what one of the could do to him. He wonders if their pale skin would bruise underneath his teeth.

He isn’t really aware that he’s stopped moving, that he’s just standing there, staring, as the group of sylphs, if they are sylphs, come closer. He can’t think of anything but different ways to touch them, to gather them close and fulfill every fantasy currently wandering through his feverish mind.

Next to him, there’s a low growl, and Derek steps forward. “Whatever mojo you’re pulling on my pack, you need to stop.”

“Are we not your type?” one of them asks in a low, throaty purr, edging closer and running her hands over his chest.

Derek grabs her by the wrists and pushes her backwards. “If you touch me again, I will tear out your throat with my teeth,” he says. “Pack it up and get out of here.”

In a manner that looks much like a sulk, the faerie pushes past him, with the rest of them following her. Stiles shakes himself, trying to figure out what just happened. He’s still a little dizzy. Derek has one hand on his cheek, turning his face so he can look at him more closely. “Are you okay?” he asks.

“Yeah, just a little . . . wow, floaty,” Stiles says.

Peter has likewise given himself a quick shake. He glances over at his nephew and says, “I suppose that does come in handy.”

“You’re welcome,” Derek retorts.

All of them take a minute to steady themselves before they start moving again. The slope downwards becomes more pronounced, and eventually, they find themselves at a set of doors, carved from the black wood they had seen in the forest. “Well, here goes everything,” Peter says, before pulling them open and going through.

The cave is the size of a football stadium. Stiles can barely see the other end. The ground under their feet is black rock, and he supposes that’s what’s above them, too. If he hadn’t known they had gone deep underground, he would have thought it was the night sky. It glitters with the same crystals and blue-green striations as the cliff they’re underneath.

It’s bowl shaped, set up in terraced layers, and there are faeries everywhere he looks. He sees ogres, pixies, sylphs, gnomes. Stalagmites jut upwards from the ground in icy spikes, sharp enough to draw blood if one isn’t careful. Music comes from nowhere, crystalline bells playing in odd melodies that send shivers up his spine. All around the room, torches burn with blue-white flame. Faeries are laughing, dancing, drinking, celebrating.

About halfway around the outer edge of the room, he sees a throne made of ice where several of the stalagmites have joined together to make an odd sort of chair. On them is a woman whose beauty is absolutely breathtaking. She rises to her feet as he stares at her. The room has gone silent with their entrance, which isn’t surprising, given how out of place they are.

Leanansidhe is taller than Stiles by an inch, with perfect white skin and hair so black that its highlights are blue. Her eyes are pools of shifting, iridescent blue-green. She’s dressed in a dress that matches them, which reminds Stiles strangely of peacocks. Her figure is almost average – not too slender, not too heavily busted – but perfect in its proportions. Her ears are pointed, and on top of her hair she’s wearing a silver tiara set with obsidian that glitters in the torchlight.

“Peter, darling!” Lea says, and her voice sends another shiver rippling through Stiles. It’s a little lower than most women he knows, and it positively drips with enticement. “How long has it been?”

“Too long, my dearest Leanansidhe,” Peter replies, and Lea descends on him, pressing her mouth to his. Her hand twines in his hair, and Stiles notices that her nails are the same color as her eyes, and much too long for comfort. Peter makes a slight noise which is by no means unhappy, and the kiss becomes deep and passionate.

“Wow,” Isaac says, his eyes like saucers.

“Uh huh,” Boyd agrees.

After several minutes have gone by, and neither Lea nor Peter shows any sign of recognizing their company, Stiles clears his throat. This has absolutely no effect. He’s a little loath to interrupt the faerie whose good will they’re absolutely dependent on, and he’s still thinking about this when Derek groans suddenly and says, “For God’s _sake_ , Uncle Peter, if you don’t get your tongue out of her mouth, I’m going to stick it to one of those pillars and see if it gets frozen there!”

Peter pulls away with a small, huffed laugh. “Lea, darling, you’re being rude to your guests,” he murmurs.

“Well, it’s simply been so long, perhaps I got carried away,” Lea says. “I’ve missed you terribly. You seem different somehow.”

“Probably because I’ve been dead several years,” Peter says. “Now, this is my nephew, Derek. His alpha, Stiles, and their betas. Isaac, Lydia, Boyd.”

“The boy in red.” Lea’s eyes are wide with fascination. “I’ve heard rumors, of course.”

Stiles gives her a polite bow and says, “I’m just accompanying Peter on his visit. No ulterior motives. On my part, at least. Peter is, of course, full of them.”

“Of course!” Lea’s laugh burbles past them like ripples in a stream. “Well, I’ll hear all about that in time. For now, let us celebrate his return! You must be famished and exhausted after the journey. Come! Eat, drink! Rest your weary bones!”

Stiles clears his throat. “Our time is limited,” he says, but the music has started again, and Lea’s already turned away from him, leaning over to murmur something into Peter’s ear.

Lydia steps up beside Stiles and grips his hand. “Don’t bother. Pleasure, then business. That’s how faeries operate. Once they’ve partied out, Peter can ask her about the crown. But to insist on it beforehand would be extremely impolite, and get her on the defensive.” She squeezes his hand and says, “But you need to get a pledge of safe conduct before we’ll be able to participate.”

“Right,” Stiles says. He steps up and gives Peter’s sleeve a tug. Peter glances at him, then gives a nod.

“Lea, dearest,” Peter says, leaning over to say the words right in her ear. She turns to look at Stiles with a brilliant smile.

Stiles bows again, lower. “Your hospitality is greatly appreciated,” he says. “We are indeed weary and would gladly partake. I give you my word that we shall offer you no harm or insult whilst in your home.”

Lea’s smile turns a little coy. She obviously knows what Stiles is doing: offering his own pledge to prompt her to offer one in return, rather than simply demanding one. But rules are rules, and she offers him her hand. He takes it and presses his lips against it, holding back a shudder at how cold it is. “You are welcome here, boy in red,” she says. “Along with your vassals. I give you my pledge of safe conduct. Now please, come,” she says, gesturing again to the room at large.

Little sprites and pixies appear from everywhere, zooming around with silver dishes. Stiles smells the food and his stomach growls. There’s a tray full of meat and he doesn’t even stop to ask what it is. Hopefully it’s something innocuous like venison or rabbit, rather than something disgusting, but it tastes good, so he doesn’t argue. There’s bread that tastes like it just came out of the oven even though there can’t be an oven within a hundred miles, so good that he actually moans when he puts it in his mouth. Even the _water_ tastes amazing, like it came from some pure crystal stream on a mountain top.

The others are no less affected. He sees Isaac and Boyd eating about five times as much as they would in a normal sitting. Even Lydia is filling her face so fast that her manners start to falter. The day’s journey took a lot out of them. It’s midday or nearabouts back in Beacon Hills, so they have every reason to be famished.

Every once in a while he catches a glimpse of Peter. Lydia is still watching him now, although it’s difficult to keep their eyes on him in the enormous cavern. He sits with Lea, foreheads touching while she giggles like a teenaged girl, or dances with her, close enough to make Stiles uncomfortable. He knows that for now, this is what Peter needs to do. Flatter Lea, remind her of good times together. That’s the only way he’s getting his hands on the Crown of Erceldoune. It still unnerves him.

But it can’t stand in the face of everything else that’s going on. He gradually sheds a few layers of clothes, seeing them whisked away in the hands of curious faeries. Their things are safe; Lea’s pledge of safe conduct will apply to their belongings. He might not see them for a while, but when he needs them, they’ll be returned.

A wispy young woman unlaces his boots and starts rubbing his feet and calves, while another massages Stiles’ shoulders and temples. “Ladies, ladies, this really isn’t necessary,” Stiles mumbles, a token protest before he sinks into their ministrations. He reminds himself, over and over again, that time is critical. That he can’t afford to be lax. He’s still reminding himself of that when the week of restless sleep catches up with him, on top of the large meal and the heavy labor, and he sinks into a dreamless slumber.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles wakes up with a start. He flails in the darkness, momentarily unsure of where he is or what’s going on. He’s sleeping on the most comfortable feather bed in the entire universe. The ceiling over him is still more black stone dotted with stars, and the room is almost entirely dark except for their faint glow. His head whips around to check on the others.

They’re all there, in the bed, which is practically the size of an ocean liner. Derek is in his wolf form, curled up at Stiles’ side. The other three are still in their human forms, sprawled out underneath piles and piles of blankets. Stiles fumbles around and finds a silver carafe of water that he takes a drink from. It clears his head, and he realizes, abruptly, that Peter is nowhere to be seen.

Cursing, he edges out of bed. Cold hits him like a physical force, and he realizes that he’s naked. Not only is he naked, but at some point he’s been scrubbed fairly thoroughly. He feels good, though; the aches and pains from the previous day – if it was the previous day – are gone. Since he doesn’t see his clothes anywhere waiting to leap into his hands, he grabs one of the blankets and wraps it around himself.

How could they have been so idiotic? Keeping track of Peter at a faerie revel was bound to be close to impossible. Why had they taken their eyes off of him for a second? They should have known better. They should have _all_ had Peter watch duty, not just one at a time, and not gotten distracted by the music and the food and the strange, bizarre beauty of it all –

“You’re going to lose your feet to frostbite if you wander around like that,” a voice says, and Stiles whips around to see Peter sitting in what looks like the door to the cavern they’re sleeping in. “Over here. Sit down.” Peter pats the floor next to him.

Suspiciously, Stiles edges over to him. He sits down and wraps the blanket around himself more thoroughly, tucking his feet underneath it so they aren’t in contact with the icy floor. “You’re still here,” he says.

“Yes, I couldn’t keep up with Lea any longer.” Peter sighs a little. “It’s been about twenty-four hours since my resurrection at this point. I’m already beginning to weaken, and I’d like very much for her not to notice.”

“Then why are you still awake?” Stiles asks.

Peter’s quiet for a moment before he just says, “Because I don’t want to miss a moment of this.”

Stiles sighs and huddles in the blanket. “Lea seemed glad to see you,” he says. He’d rather keep the conversation on the business at hand, if at all possible.

“Yes, thankfully. She said I was one of her favorites, although she’s probably said that to countless men over the centuries. Now that the party is winding down, and you’re awake, we can talk to her about the crown and see what she says.”

“Peter, what – what really happened with you and Lea?” Stiles asks. “I mean, you really seem to love this place. You seem in your element here, with all the games and the wordplay and the bargaining. Was it really just over after one fight?”

“Well, understand that it was one _hell_ of a fight,” Peter says, lips quirking into a smile. “But no, even after that, I didn’t give up Faerie completely. I had my share of flings and I had a lot of good times, but as for why I never saw Lea again, well. I met.” Peter lets out a breath. “I met Olivia.”

Stiles nods in sudden understanding. He’s heard Derek mention ‘Aunt Olivia’ a few times, and he had never asked whether she had been one of Talia’s sisters or married an uncle or what. Maybe he just didn’t want to know. “Your wife?” he asks cautiously.

“Mm.”

“Was it love at first sight?” Stiles wonders why he’s even asking these questions, why he wants to know anything about Peter’s wife, wants to know anything that might make him feel sorry for Peter.

“Oh, no,” Peter says. “Although it wasn’t the clichéd ‘sparks flew and we hated each other’, either. It was quiet. Slow. She was one of Talia’s friend’s sisters. We met a few times, had a drink together during a gathering once or twice. Danced at a new year’s eve party. She started coming over a lot, just to hang out. We would watch movies and make meals together. We had never even kissed when I realized that I was incredibly, irretrievably, irrevocably in love with her.”

“That sounds nice,” Stiles says.

“It was. Totally outside the realm of my experience, a love like that. She laughed at me when I told her that, said she’d known for ages but was waiting for me to catch up.” Peter’s breath catches, like a sudden, sharp pain had gone through him. “Then I watched her die. I held her in my arms and begged her not to leave me . . . but she did. There was hardly anything left of her by the time the fire had burned itself out. And hardly anything left of me, either.”

Stiles says nothing for a long time. He’s purposefully avoided asking Peter any questions about the afterlife, this entire time. There are some things that he feels he just shouldn’t know. It’s enough for him to know that there _is_ one, that according to Peter, it provides at least some measure of peace. He wonders if the other Hales are up there, watching them. If his mother still watches him, if she’s proud of the man he’s become. If Peter’s been reunited with his lost love. But he can’t ask any of that.

“I did terrible things after that,” Peter says. “I won’t deny that or offer excuses. I did them in full knowledge of the fact that they were terrible, and I felt no remorse. Because to me, it was worth it. I would have sacrificed anything to avenge her death, and the death of our son. I would have burned down the world and salted the earth and called it good riddance.”

Stiles lets out another shaky breath, and says, “I understand.”

“Do you?” Peter asks.

“Yes,” Stiles says. “She was your lupa. I have a lupa. I know what that’s like. I’ve worried about losing him, wondered what would happen if I ever did. I’ve made a deal with the others. That if anything ever happens to Derek, if I cross the line, they’ll put me down, whether Derek’s been avenged or not. Because I don’t want to become like you, Peter. But I see how it could happen so, so easily.”

“Fair enough,” Peter murmurs. He looks up and out into the main cavern. “Get dressed,” he says, “and let’s go see a lady about a crown.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many things happening~
> 
> If you haven't seen the movie Frozen, you might miss a couple references in this chapter. Don't worry, I'm just poking fun at pop culture. It won't be important.

 

Their things have been cleaned, pressed, and neatly hung up against the far wall. Stiles gives Peter a surprised look. He shrugs and says, “Brownies” as if this explains everything. Stiles supposes, to a certain extent, that it does. He gets dressed and then leans over Derek, giving him a gentle shake. A few minutes later, all the werewolves are up and getting dressed.

“Most of you should stay here,” Peter says. “A show of force is unwarranted. Stiles, why don’t you and Derek accompany me?”

Stiles nods, and gives the others a reassuring nod as well. They’re more than happy to stay in the nice, warm bed, rather than venturing out into the icy cavern. It’s almost completely empty, now, and their steps echo as they make their way across it. Derek’s hand is curled around Stiles’ elbow protectively. They find Lea sprawled out on a chaise lounge made of white marble with black striations in it. She greets them cordially, standing up to give Peter another x-rated kiss.

“So, darling, about my ulterior motives,” he says, and she laughs. He reaches out to caress her face, and then his hand wanders up and taps the silver of the tiara she’s wearing. “I rather need this back now.”

“This silly thing?” she purrs, as Stiles blinks in surprise. He hadn’t realized that the crown she was wearing was _the_ crown. “I thought we agreed I would look after it for a while.”

“Well, it has been a while,” Peter agrees. “It seems the owner is a trifle upset with us.”

Lea pouts. “But stealing it was so much fun. I have such fond memories of our time together.”

“As do I,” Peter says, “but he hasn’t given me much room to argue.”

Lea sighs, dramatically. “I suppose,” she says, and Stiles is left blinking, wondering if it could really be that easy. “What do you propose as an exchange?” she then asks, dashing his hopes.

“Is there something in particular you want?” Peter asks, and adds without hesitation, “Or should I just ask what it is that you want, since I’m sure there’s something?”

A wicked smile that does terrible things to Stiles’ libido crosses Lea’s face. “There’s something that was stolen from _me_ ,” she says. “I need you to retrieve it.”

“Fair enough,” Peter says. “What is it?”

“A key. Elsa took it not long after you left. Could you be a dear and go get it back for me?”

Peter’s still, now. “You want me to go see Elsa.”

“Mm hm,” Lea says, smiling beatifically.

“Are you still angry with me, darling?” Peter asks. “Elsa loathes me.”

“Yes, well, she also loathes me, and you’re better at sweet-talking her than I am,” Lea says. “I’m not angry, Peter, I just really need that key.” She’s still smiling, drawing a finger up and down his chest.

Peter huffs out a breath. “Nothing else will suit?”

“No, dearest. Get me the key, and the crown is yours.”

Stiles clears his throat. “Who is Elsa?” he asks.

“Another Winter Lady,” Peter says. “One of Lea’s sisters. You might have heard of her, actually, if you’ve done research into legend; she’s known as the snow queen.”

Stiles blinks. “Do you have another sister named Anna, by chance?” he asks, and both Lea and Peter look at him blankly. “Never mind. Pop culture references aren’t really a thing in Faerie, I take it. Okay. So Elsa has something that belongs to Lea, we’re going to go get it back. Is there a particular reason that Elsa hates you?”

Peter rubs his hand over the back of his head and looks innocently at the ceiling.

“Jesus Christ, Peter,” Stiles says. “Is there anyone you _weren’t_ sleeping with, while you were alive?”

“Oh, plenty of people,” Peter says.

“Let me get this straight,” Derek says. “You _cheated on_ a Faerie Lady. With her _sister_.”

“It wasn’t entirely my fault,” Peter murmurs, “as I’ve tried to explain to Lea multiple times. She tricked me.”

“You should have known better,” Lea says archly.

“How did she trick you?” Stiles asks.

“She pretended to be Lea,” Peter says.

“It was a mediocre glamour and a horrible impersonation,” Lea says. “You should have known it wasn’t me before you’d spent three minutes in the room with her.”

Stiles rubs both hands over his face. “So, wait, why does Elsa hate you? Specifically?”

“My sister has always been jealous of my mortal paramours,” Lea says. “And she particularly loathed Peter from the start. She said he would eventually betray me, and set about proving it. She was so proud of herself,” she adds, with a dramatic sigh, “when I found them in bed together.”

With a tight smile, Peter says, “Lea said she understood that I hadn’t realized it was Elsa, told me that there were no hard feelings, and then as soon as we had gotten the Crown of Erceldoune, decided that she was angry with me after all.”

Lea just gives an elegant shrug in response to this.

“Well, you did fuck her sister,” Stiles says. “So I get why Lea was pissed. But why does Elsa hate you?”

“Primarily because I didn’t fall into her arms when Lea rejected me,” Peter says. “She presumed I would be devastated by it, and approached me soon afterwards.”

“But . . . it was her fault that you and Lea broke up,” Derek says.

“Most mortal men don’t say no to a faerie lover,” Lea purrs. “Particularly not once they’ve experienced it.”

“True,” Peter says.

“But this is going to get ridiculous,” Stiles says. “We need the crown from Lea. So she tells us to go get the key from Elsa. But then Elsa’s going to go tell us to get something else, and whoever has that is going to tell us to get something _else_ , and we’re going to wind up on eighteen different wild goose chases.”

Peter shrugs. “That’s Faerie.”

Stiles groans and rubs both hands over his face. “And let me guess – Elsa lives in a castle made of ice on top of a mountain.”

“Yes, how did you know?” Peter asks.

“Just a feeling,” Stiles says.

Peter smiles at Lea and says, “I don’t suppose you’d be open to the concept of a little assistance, love? Because Elsa’s home is a good four day journey away, and I really don’t have that much time to spare. If you could open a Way to get us to the edge of her territory, it would be helpful.”

“To have you return to me all the sooner?” Lea asks. “Certainly.”

“Let’s go get the others,” Derek says, and when Stiles’ stomach growls, he adds, “Breakfast?”

Eyes twinkling, Lea claps her hands. Several faeries zoom out of the dimmer areas of the enormous cavern. By the time they get back to the small cave that the others are sleeping in, the faeries have produced pitchers of water, loaves of bread, and trays of fruit. Everyone digs in and gets dressed. Their backpacks have clearly been rifled through by curious fingers, but everything is still there and intact.

“Okay,” Stiles says, and sums up the situation. “It’s been twenty-four hours since Peter’s resurrection. We’ve got forty-eight hours left. Let’s go see the Snow Queen.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

The movie didn’t do Elsa’s mountain castle justice, or anything like it. Even from the bottom of the mountain, Stiles’ jaw sags in awe. The mountain is shaped almost like a wave, with the castle set on top of the curl, looking like it might slide off into the abyss at any moment. Contrary to legend, it isn’t made entirely of ice. But it isn’t the stunning black rocks from the cliff, or the beautiful white marble that much of Lea’s furniture was made of. It’s made of crystal, white and clear and iridescent. Parts of it reflect the moon in pale shades of lavender or blue.

“Holy shit,” Isaac says, summing up all of their thoughts as they stare up the mountain.

“How do we get up there?” Boyd asks, choosing to be practical.

“There’s a way,” Peter says, and everyone groans.

The ‘way’ is a rocky mountain path that takes them around the mountain over and over again, in an ever tightening spiral. Stiles knows that in terms of distance, traveling the circumference of the mountain over and over again is the longest route possible. But he can also see that doing anything else would be far too steep. They would never make it. Even experienced mountain climbers would probably give it a pass.

At least they’re fresh. All of them slept besides Peter, and Stiles feels better today than he has in a week. He can tackle a mountain if he needs to.

“So I have to know,” he finally says. “Did you know it was Elsa?”

“You mean, when I had sex with her?” Peter asks, and Stiles nods. “I figured it out about the same time that she got my clothes off.”

“And is there a particular reason you didn’t leave, at that point?” Lydia asks tartly.

“Please,” Peter says, and laughs. “You try saying no to a naked Faerie Queen.”

“I would be happy to,” Lydia remarks, “particularly if I was currently involved with her sister.”

Peter shrugs. “Don’t make a big deal out of it. I wasn’t exactly engaged to Lea. She had her flings; I had mine. She wouldn’t have been angry, if it hadn’t been Elsa. They’ve always hated each other. And in any case, she would have forgiven me easily enough within a year or two. The reasons we never got back together were mine, not hers.”

Stiles isn’t about to ask Peter to talk about Olivia again, so he changes the subject. “Do you have any ideas about how we should approach Elsa?”

“Well, if she knows I’m involved, she’ll say no just to spite me,” Peter says. “Fortunately, bundled up like this you can barely see my face, and she probably wouldn’t recognize me anyway. So if I stay in the background, that ought to be fine. But that means you’ll need to do the talking.”

Stiles nods and turns to Lydia. “You’ll need to do the talking.”

Lydia gives an amused smile. “So it would seem.”

“And don’t mention Lea, either,” Peter says. “In fact, if you can make it sound like we’re doing this against Lea’s wishes, that will soften Elsa up.”

Lydia nods like she doesn’t need Peter’s advice. “Tell her that we’re going after something of Lea’s, and we want to dangle the key over her head. Tell her she can only have it back if she gives us what she wants.”

“Exactly.” Peter gives Lydia one of those curved smiles of his. Lydia ignores him.

The journey up the mountain takes a lot longer than Stiles would have liked. He thinks back to Peter saying it would take four days to get to Elsa, and believes it. After eight solid hours of climbing, they’re all exhausted. Even their enhanced endurance can only do so much against the vigorous exercise, difficult terrain, and struggling against the wind and snow. They’re conditioned, but not for this.

Since there’s no day or night, Stiles decides they’ll take a break. “Five hour break; everyone takes an hour watch,” he says, and everyone groans. He tries to do the math. Eight hours has gotten them roughly halfway up the mountain, if he’s any judge. Adding a five-hour break to that, and assuming they don’t need to take another one, and they’ll reach Elsa at forty-five hours after Peter’s resurrection. Then they’ll still have to deal with her, get back to Lea, and find a way back to Beacon Hills.

The idea is exhausting, but he can’t sleep. He’s cold and uncomfortable and can’t stop the thoughts nagging at his brain.

He’s thinking about just giving up and offering to take over the watch shifts until he gets tired enough to sleep, when he hears Peter speak. Derek had volunteered to take the first watch, and Peter says, “I owe you an apology, nephew.”

“You owe me about fifty apologies,” Derek replies.

“True,” Peter muses. “But you know what I mean.”

“Then say it,” Derek says, his voice no less forceful even though he keeps it quiet.

There’s a pause, then Peter says, “I’m sorry about Laura.”

“Fuck you,” Derek retorts.

Peter gives a quiet little sigh. “I’m not asking for your forgiveness, Derek. I know I don’t deserve that. I wanted her power to heal myself, to get revenge. It was a selfish, horrible thing to do, and I won’t deny that. But I do want you to know that I’m sorry. I regret it. Now that I’m a little less insane, I wish I hadn’t done it. I did, and I can’t change that, and I won’t try to make excuses for my behavior. But I’m sorry for the pain I caused you.”

Derek’s quiet for a long minute. “Have you seen her?”

Stiles goes tense under the blankets, because he knows that this is going to lead to a lot of questions about the afterlife and he just isn’t sure he wants to hear the answers, but he doesn’t know what to say. He thinks Derek deserves to know, if he wants to.

“Yes,” Peter says.

“Did she kick your ass?”

Peter gives a quiet chuckle and says, “Compared to what Talia said to me? Laura’s wrath barely made a dent.”

“Good,” Derek says. There’s another long silence. “I don’t know that I can ever forgive you for that, Uncle Peter. Laura meant . . . so much to me. I love Stiles, and I love the pack, and I wouldn’t give them up. But you murdered the person I loved most in the world, and I can’t . . . I can’t just be okay with that. I appreciate the apology. But I can’t accept it.”

“I understand,” Peter replies. He lets out another sigh. “I don’t plan to sleep. You may as well get some rest.”

“No,” Derek says. “Stiles told me to keep watch. He’s the alpha. What he says, goes.”

“Good,” Peter says, with a note of satisfaction in his voice. Stiles can almost see that smirk on his face. Stiles drifts into sleep, and bad dreams. He takes his watch shift at the end, feeling groggy and annoyed. Then they set off again. The path gets steeper and the terrain even more difficult, and it takes about ten hours to get the rest of the way up. They could use another break, but they’re so close to the top that all of them get a second wind.

All of them, that is, except Peter. He’s flagging badly by the end of it, although they’re all polite enough not to mention it, even Lydia. They have to start lifting him over the outcropping of rocks and up over barriers. The idea of climbing back _down_ afterwards – probably without a break, since they can’t count on hospitality from Elsa – is daunting. Stiles wonders if it would be quicker and easy to just try to sled down on their asses.

The final path up is about two hundred steps made of solid crystal, hovering in midair, connected only by hair thin strands of ice, with no railings. Peter looks up at them and gives a muffled little groan.

“Is he going to be able to climb that?” Boyd asks.

Stiles responds, “Am _I_ going to be able to climb that?”

“I’ll be fine,” Peter says, his voice a little uneven. “We’re just going to have to take it slowly.”

“Yeah, we’re running out of time for you to take things slowly,” Stiles decides. They’re at nearly forty-eight hours now. If Elsa won’t give them the key and sends them to get something else to trade, or demands they perform some service for her, he has no idea how long the rest of this will take. “Derek, carry him.”

Derek nods and kneels down in front of Peter without commentary. Peter sighs slightly but does as instructed, wrapping his arms around Derek’s shoulders so he can be carried. Derek gets back to his feet without the slightest bit of effort. “Get some rest,” he says to Peter, and starts up the stairs. The others follow.

After what seems like an eternity, they’re at the top. The area just inside the front gate is a courtyard which is plenty large enough for them to regroup. Derek sets Peter down, and the werewolf adjusts his scarf so most of his face is hidden and falls towards the back of the group. Isaac hovers close to him, taking his turn on Peter-watch, as they approach the massive front doors. They’re guarded by a pair of ogres, standing about ten feet tall, both of which look dumb as rocks.

Lydia takes the lead and gives a low bow. “Honored guardians,” she says, “we seek an audience with the Snow Queen.”

One of the ogres grunts. Nothing else happens. Lydia waits a few moments, and since they don’t seem to be letting her in, she opens her mouth again. Before she can say something else, however, a crow drops down from one of the spires. It lands on the shoulder of one of the trolls and opens its beak. The voice that comes out is harsh and grating, but understandable. “Who seeks the audience?”

“The boy in red,” she says.

“For what purpose?” the crow asks.

“To pay our respects,” Lydia says, “and to make bargains.”

The crow tilts its head to one side. “If you have me, you want to share me. But once you share me, I cease to exist. What am I?”

Lydia smiles. “A secret.”

The crow flies away. A few moments later, the door opens. Lydia heads inside with Stiles right behind her. The others come in behind them and they find themselves in a large antechamber. Two staircases lead up to a balcony above them, but other than that, the room is empty. On the very center of the balcony overlooking them stands a woman.

Stiles had expected someone who looked like Lea or even paler, but Elsa has surprisingly dark skin, a few shades more tan than Scott or Erica. Her hair is long and white, swirling around her in the wind that blows through the chamber, and her eyes are the same pale, iridescent shade of blue-purple as the crystal castle. Her dress is the same, changing color as she steps over the balcony and starts down to greet them. Chunks of ice form underneath her feet, supporting her steps and then melting away.

“Boy in red,” she says, as she lands on the floor of the foyer. “What brings you so far from your home?”

“A search,” Stiles says. “We’re looking for a key.”

“There’s only one key here that anyone would look for,” Elsa says. “What business do you have with Leanandsidhe?”

“She has something we need,” Stiles says. “We also heard she’s looking for this key. If we can obtain it, we can force her to trade with us.”

“Force Lea.” A wicked smile crosses Elsa’s face. “No one has ever forced Lea to do anything.”

“Force is perhaps too strong a word,” Lydia agrees. “We can persuade her to make a bargain that benefits us.”

“Perhaps,” Elsa agrees. “But what can a mere mortal possibly offer me?” Her eyes travel up and down the group. “You’ve brought many vassals to offer me, I see. I can have my choice?”

“Uh,” Stiles says, not sure how to respond to this. “If there is some service we can provide for you, you need only ask. But at the end of the day, my betas come home with me.”

Elsa shrugs. “What about you, boy in red?” She steps closer, trailing a finger down his cheek. “Would you like to . . . service me?”

Stiles isn’t exactly looking to start sleeping with faeries, but he can think of things he’d less rather do. It’s not like Derek or Erica will care. “If those are your terms.”

“Such enthusiasm,” Elsa purrs. “Most mortals would give a limb to hear an offer like that.”

“Yeah, well.” Stiles is running out of patience, and he’s never been good at formality. “My fuckbuddy can outsex an incubus, so, I’m not most mortals.”

“Oh. _Her_.” Elsa’s mouth purses in distaste. “Very well. I don’t suppose any of you are virgins? I do like virgins.”

Isaac flushes pink, which is really enough of an answer. Stiles glances at him, a look that he hopes conveys clearly that he’s not going to force Isaac to do anything. Isaac is, somewhat understandably, staring at Elsa’s breasts. But he manages to tear his gaze away from them long enough to clear his throat and say, “Uh, I uh, fit that criteria, m’lady.”

“Mm hm . . .” Elsa steps over to him, putting both her hands on his chest, leaning in to brush her lips over hers. Isaac goes weak in the knees and nearly falls over. “Mm . . . no. I want that one.” She points to where Peter is standing, slightly behind Boyd, face mostly covered by his scarf.

Stiles looks between the two of them and tries to think of something clever to say. It’s Lydia who smoothly intervenes, saying, “He’s but a servant, m’lady, hired to carry our belongings. Certainly you deserve better.”

Elsa’s smile has turned cold, and she walks over to Peter, ignoring Lydia’s words and tugging Peter’s scarf down to reveal his face. He arches his eyebrows at her and says nothing. Then Elsa whirls to Stiles and hisses, “Did you think you could fool me? That you could bring a viper into my home without my realizing it?”

“Viper? Now really, Elsa,” Peter says. “I wasn’t that bad, was I?”

“You,” Elsa snarls, drawing the word out. “You are the _worst_.”

Stiles thinks that he agrees with her, really, and he’s not sure that intervening would help. In fact, he gestures the others to back away a little, to get out of the line of fire being drawn between the faerie and the werewolf. They’re happy to obey.

“What are you gaming for, Peter Hale?” Elsa asks, her eyes pure white and her face twisted with rage.

“I need the key, Elsa. I need it to trade with Lea.”

“Oh, Lea, it’s always about Lea,” Elsa retorts. “You dare come into my home and try to trick me! You can have the key, Peter, but only if I get what I want in return, which is you. You can only have the key if you agree to serve in my court for a hundred – no, for a _thousand_ years.”

“That’s overdoing it a little, don’t you think?” Peter sounds more amused than anything else. “Alas, although I’d love to take you up on the offer, my time in this realm is limited. I’m only here by way of magic, and within the next two days I’ll be back in my grave.”

“Details!” Elsa scoffs and waves this away. “Time can be frozen like anything else, as you well know.”

“Wait, _what_?” Stiles demands.

“You’ll keep me alive?” Peter asks, his gaze fixed on Elsa.

“For a thousand years,” she snaps back at him.

“Well, then,” Peter says. “It seems we have a deal.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	10. Chapter 10

 

“Okay, wait, how about no,” Stiles interrupts, moving between Elsa and Peter. He’s forgotten his fear of Elsa in his rage at Peter. “Like, worlds of no, oceans of no, would you like a little no with your no because _no_.”

Peter smiles at Stiles, showing teeth. “The lady has made her desires known.”

“You . . .” Stiles has to strangle back the torrent of words that want to come out. “You were planning this right from the start, you _son of a bitch_ , you knew the Falcon wanted the Crown of Erceldoune, you knew we’d need to come to Faerie and that there were a hundred different ways here that you could keep your life, you lying piece of shit!”

Peter just gives a remorseless little shrug, and he doesn’t dispute what Stiles is saying. Boyd and Derek move between them as it looks like Stiles might start trying to beat the shit out of Peter right then and there. Lydia takes Stiles by the hand and squeezes. After a moment, he manages to contain his temper and turn to Elsa. “I’m sorry, your majesty, but this bargain isn’t acceptable.”

“This bargain is between myself and Peter,” Elsa says, without looking at him. “It doesn’t concern you.”

Peter bows to her. “I will serve a thousand years in your court, and you will give me the key.”

“I will give _Lea_ the key,” Elsa says. “I want to see the look on her face when she realizes what I’ve done.”

“Fine by me, if it means we don’t have to climb down the mountain,” Peter says. “But I’ll need a day or two to take the crown back to the human realm and exchange it for my daughter. Then I’ll return here, straightaway.”

“You won’t leave my sight until you’ve sworn to serve me,” Elsa says.

Peter gives her another bow. “I so solemnly swear,” he says.

She lifts her chin into the air and sniffs. “Fine.”

Stiles grits his teeth. He wants to just say ‘fuck this’ and head back to Beacon Hills. Let Peter figure out the rest of it on his own. But without someone to open the Way, he can’t get back by himself. Until then, he has to stick with Peter, who obviously has some plan about how they’re going to get back. “I’m surprised you even care about getting the crown and freeing Malia,” he snaps. “Since apparently this was your real goal all along.”

Peter shrugs. “She is my daughter, you know.”

“All that stuff you told me,” Stiles says. “About death, about Olivia. You were lying about everything.”

“Yes, I was,” Peter agrees, smiling at him.

Elsa gives a sharp, angry laugh. “That’s Peter Hale, little boy in red. He’s a liar through and through. You really should have known better.”

“Yes, I should have,” Stiles mutters. Derek gives his shoulder a squeeze. “Let’s go, if we’re going.”

“Well, we can’t leave right this instant,” Elsa says, with a dramatic roll of her eyes. Then her voice becomes artificially sweet. “You poor dears just climbed up the mountain, after all! Even though I can build a Way, it will still be a lengthy journey to Lea’s. You must dine here and get some rest!”

Stiles’ jaw sets in anger and he gets three words into, “Look, I’m not – ” before Lydia grabs him by the wrist and squeezes hard in warning. He takes a deep breath, watching Elsa give him an icy stare, waiting for him to finish. After a few moments, he manages to modulate his tone. “We would be honored to receive your hospitality.”

“Excellent!” Lea says, and claps. Moments later, gnomes scuttle out of tiny doors set into the bottom of the crystal walls. They usher the guests through a dizzying set of spiral staircases and into a room set with a long dining room table made of black wood.

“We will, of course, need a pledge of safe conduct,” Stiles says, because even if he’s not going to be rude, he doesn’t feel the need to be polite, either.

“Of course, of course,” Elsa says, waving a hand negligently, and when Stiles doesn’t budge, she pouts and says, “You have my pledge, boy in red.”

“Good.” Stiles doesn’t offer one in return. A number of small, winged faeries – larger than the pixies in the forest, but still no larger than birds – come and help them out of their outer garments. He wishes more than ever that he had his chainmail. Another score of them flitter in supporting metal dishes in their tiny hands. Each one is rimmed with frost, and it reminds him of the frost faeries in Fantasia.

Elsa sits down at the head of the table and gives a grandiose gesture that the others should sit as well. Stiles sits as far away from her, grudgingly. But even he can’t stop himself from stuffing his face. The food isn’t equal to Lea’s spread – it’s cold, cooked fish and strange, wafer-like crackers – but it’s food. He’s been living on granola bars and beef jerky for the past twenty-three hours.

Since he doesn’t bother to hold back, none of the others do, either. Peter sits right next to Elsa. She bosses him around and makes outrageous demands of him the entire time, making him feed her and comb her hair and kiss her feet. He puts up with all of this with aplomb.

“When did you figure it out?’ Stiles finally asks, after they’ve been eating for nearly ten minutes in silence. Derek glances up at this. He’s sitting right next to Stiles, and although his presence is warm and reassuring, he’s got a dark, brooding expression on his face. Peter just looks up and raises his eyebrows at Stiles. “Come on. I got you this far. You owe me that much.”

Peter nods and shrugs one shoulder. “When I first appeared to you, I told the truth. I knew nothing beyond that someone was using Malia to attempt to summon me. When you met the Falcon in the vault and described her to me, I had a suspicion. When you identified that it was, in fact, the Falcon, then I knew it had to be the Crown of Erceldoune. Nothing else I stole would have garnered that much attention.”

“So you refused to tell me, because you knew I would need to resurrect you to get the answer,” Stiles says, his jaw tightening. “And you knew that I would bring you to Faerie to get it.”

“Yes, precisely,” Peter says. He laughs when he sees the closely guarded expression of rage on Stiles’ face. “Don’t take it so personally! Yes, I tricked you. I’ve tricked a lot of people. But I don’t intend to kill you or steal your power or hurt your pack. What does it matter if I outwitted you a little?”

“You _used_ me,” Stiles spits out. Derek looks over again and seems to be thinking about saying something, but then decides against it. “Just like you use everybody. Tell me the truth. Have you ever, _ever_ cared for anyone besides yourself?”

“When it was convenient,” Peter replies.

Derek gives a low growl. Surprisingly, so does Boyd. Elsa covers her mouth to hide a quiet little snicker.

“Well maybe, just maybe, I’m a little sensitive about that, given our history,” Stiles says. “Since I seem to recall something about you abducting me and forcing me to give you information about Scott. Right before you left me in the trunk of your car.” He’s so angry that he can’t stop the words spilling out. Elsa’s quiet mirth at the other end of the table is only fueling his rage. “So what was the point of that, anyway? Were you going to take me on vacation with you?”

“I couldn’t exactly let you go running off,” Peter says. “Knowing you, you probably would’ve gone and made a bunch of Molotov cocktails to bring to the party.”

“Maybe that would have been better for you,” Stiles retorts. “Since instead you wound up getting shot three times and captured by Chris Argent. Nice job, by the way. A plus. And then they, oh, let’s see, they locked you up and tortured you for weeks. Kind of makes a quick incineration look enjoyable by comparison.”

Peter shrugs. “All things work out in time,” he says, serene. “After all, here we are.”

“So what were you going to do with me?” Stiles demands. “God damn it, I want to know. Were you just going to let me go, once you had killed everyone?”

“I had some vague ideas about using you for leverage over Scott or Derek,” Peter says. “They were very recalcitrant betas. Scott was easy to manipulate but Derek, well, let’s just say that I knew even then that he had a soft spot for you. He used to talk about you, when he came to visit me. He would complain constantly about how irritating you were.”

Stiles remembers Peter’s first words to him in the hospital. ‘You must be Stiles.’ How he had wondered at the time how much Peter knew about him, and why, but how it hadn’t seemed to matter after everything else. “You were going to force them to accept you as alpha.”

“An alpha needs three betas to form a pack,” Peter says. “Since I had just bitten the lovely Lydia, that would have given me three, and all of them would have agreed to accept me if it meant your life.”

“Yeah, and I’m sure the alpha pack would have loved that,” Stiles says.

Peter just gives another shrug. “I never had a prayer of passing the trial. Kali Steele was the alpha of alphas, and she would never, ever pass the alpha who killed Laura. So why even bother worrying about it? I figured if I could build up my strength enough, the trial wouldn’t be an issue.”

There’s logic to it, and Stiles hates that more than anything else. He resists the urge to just slam Peter’s face in the table.

“Peter, darling, you’re a terrible person,” Elsa proclaims. “Go apologize to your friend for manipulating him.”

Peter bows low to her and says, “Your wish is my command,” and she preens. He walks to the other end of the table and pulls a chair down to Stiles, wedging himself in between Stiles and Lydia. She snarls at him but doesn’t try to get in his way. “Stiles, I am sorry for my deceptions,” he says, with a completely solemn face. “Can you ever forgive me?”

“No,” Stiles snaps. “The only upside to this is that at least you’ll wind up Elsa’s whipping boy for the next thousand years. Good job on that. I wouldn’t want to have to put up with her for an hour.”

Elsa laughs. So does Peter. Then he murmurs, “I know what you’re thinking, you know. That Elsa will keep me here, that she’ll give me all manner of unpleasant tasks to do, keep me busy, break my spirit. And you’re right to a certain degree. But a thousand years? Hardly. Her attention span isn’t nearly that long.” He gives Stiles a curved grin and continues to speak quietly while Elsa bosses around some of the gnomes. “I’ll flatter her. Apologize for not having realized that she should have been the only star in my universe. Grovel and beg. I can play the role, you know. You saw me beg. But I never beg, Stiles. I just pretend. And I guarantee you, within a year, Elsa will have forgotten all about why she was angry with me. She’ll make me one of her knights. She’ll give me power beyond mortal comprehension. So yes, I’m happy to play the ‘whipping boy’, as you put it. I can be patient . . . when I have to be.”

He sees the look on Stiles’ face and says, “Go on, tell her. Tell her exactly what I just said. Even if she knows I’m doing it, she can’t resist the flattery. That’s just who she is. She’ll tell herself that she’s still angry at me, but she won’t be. Faeries just don’t work that way, Stiles. They’re ever-changing. Nobody forgets like a faerie.”

“Peter!” Elsa’s voice rings out from the other end of the table. “Get back here. I need a footstool.”

“Of course, my queen,” Peter says, and Stiles sees the glint in his eye as he stands and walks over to her. He gets on his hands and knees and lets her prop her feet up on his back.

“Stiles,” Derek says quietly.

“Jesus, I can’t . . .” Stiles struggles to comprehend everything that’s happened in the last hour. He tries to figure out how he can go home and tell the others that not only is Peter going to survive, give him a year or two and he’s going to be more powerful than he ever was as a werewolf. He tries to figure out how he’s going to live, looking over his shoulder for the man he killed every minute of his life, waiting for Peter to come take his vengeance on him. How in God’s name is he possibly supposed to deal with that? There are some things that are simply beyond coping mechanisms.

He looks up at Derek and says in a raw little whisper, “Derek, I can’t handle this.”

Derek studies him quietly for a few moments, and then just nods and says. “I know.” He leans forward and presses his lips against Stiles’ forehead. Then he stands up and walks down to the other end of the table. “Queen Elsa, may I beg a moment of your footrest’s time?” he asks.

“I suppose so,” Elsa says, lifting her feet off of Peter’s back and putting them back on the floor.

Peter is just looking up and starting to rise when Derek draws one foot back and looses a viciously powerful kick at the werewolf’s midsection. It catches Peter right in the gut, and he goes flying. He hits the wall with an impact hard enough to break bones, but Derek isn’t finished. He grabs Peter’s empty chair and gives it a hefty swing just as Peter is trying to scramble back to his feet. It breaks over his back and head in an explosion of splintered wood.

“Holy _shit_ ,” Isaac blurts out, all of them watching this. Stiles is particularly dazed, just staring. It’s unusual to see Derek unleashing violence of any sort, let alone of this caliber. He thinks distantly that he should probably stop this – and then in the same moment, acknowledges that he’s not going to. That he’s going to sit quietly and let his lupa do this for him. Not just for him, but for Laura, and for himself.

“Stop it!” Elsa screams. “Stop it, you idiot child!”

Peter rolls onto his back, wheezing something that sounds similar, because he can’t seem to get to his feet. But Derek is far from done. He kicks Peter again, this time squarely in the face, drawing a pained ‘ooooooh’ from Lydia and Boyd. “Derek, stop,” Peter manages, and Derek scoops up one of the shards of the chair, which is now shaped and sized just right to impale somebody.

Elsa lets out a blood-curdling shriek and lunges out of her chair. “Stop it!” she screams again, and the temperature in the room plummets dramatically. Gnomes scurry in every direction. “He belongs to me and you will not touch him!” She draws one hand back and ball of crystalline ice forms in it, and she hurls it at Derek.

Without thinking, Stiles jolts up from the table and throws himself onto Derek. The general idea in his head is to knock Derek out of the way and hope they _both_ wind up on the floor. That, of course, doesn’t happen. Elsa’s spell hits him on his way down, and a shock of cold unlike anything he’s ever known goes through him. He’s honestly surprised he doesn’t shatter into pieces when he hits the floor.

“Stiles!” several voices shout, as his body jerks and spasms. He’s barely aware of what happens after that. He thinks that Elsa grabs Peter and hauls him away from Derek, who’s now kneeling besides Stiles, much more worried about him.

Stiles tries to say something, but his teeth are chattering so hard that he can’t get a word out. He wants to make a joke, something about ice magic and true love’s kiss. He doesn’t need to. Apparently Derek is thinking the same thing, because moments later his lips are pressed into Stiles’ temple. Their warmth feels like it’s burning his skin, but nothing else happens.

“Get him out of his clothes,” Lydia says in a crisp, clear voice. “Boyd, get those blankets from our packs, roll them out onto the floor so he won’t be touching it. The best way to warm him up is to get into our fur.”

Derek wheels on Elsa as Boyd and Isaac are grabbing for the blankets, and Lydia is getting Stiles out of his clothes. There are more jokes he’d love to make about that, but they aren’t about to happen either. “You bitch,” Derek snarls.

“Don’t look at me,” Elsa says in a haughty voice. “You attacked a member of my court. You’re lucky I didn’t kill you.”

“Peter, you get into your fur, too,” Lydia snaps. “I don’t care what you’ve done. The more warmth we can get on Stiles, the better.”

Peter wipes blood off his face and doesn’t argue, shrugging out of his jacket. A minute later, Elsa is gone and Stiles is buried in wolves. He still can’t stop shivering, but the weight of their bodies on him is preventing the full body shudders. Gradually, after he-has-no-idea-how-long, he starts to thaw out. His shaking grows more intense at first, but then starts to ease.

Finally, he slurs out, “Guess I don’t need to do the ice bucket challenge after all.”

Isaac and Lydia both give wolfy groans. Derek looks up, ears back, and pushes his face against Stiles’. “Gross,” Stiles mutters, as Derek’s tongue swipes across his cheek. Derek lays his chin flat on Stiles’ chest, looking up at him with sad eyes.

“Yeah, I’ll give you points for chutzpah, but overall that maybe wasn’t the _best_ decision you’ve ever made,” Stiles says.

Derek shifts back, dislodging several of the others, and looks down. “Sorry,” he mutters.

“I would’ve been all for it if you’d ripped his spine out, really, but I don’t think Elsa would have let us leave here intact.”

“It’s true.” Peter has shifted back as well, and is sitting up. “It was very foolish. You should have – fuck!” he yelps, as Isaac’s teeth sink into his calf. “Son of a bitch!”

“Don’t talk to my pack that way, asshole,” Stiles says. He rolls onto his side and tries to push himself up. His limbs feel weak and stiff. “Fuck this, you know what? If you’re going to live, we don’t have a time limit anymore. Or at least it’s five days instead of three now. And frankly I don’t really give a shit about what happens to Malia anymore, even though that probably makes me a terrible person. I think I’m going to lie here for another few hours until I feel even remotely human again. How does that sound?”

“Sounds good to me,” Boyd says, and promptly shifts back to being a wolf. They all curl up together again. Derek shifts back as well, and kicks Peter out of the pile. Peter makes an annoyed, disapproving noise, a click of his tongue, but he doesn’t argue. He stands up and dresses, and leaves the room.

“Should we watch him?” Lydia asks.

“The fuck does it matter now,” Stiles mutters.

“Well, he could go plot to kill us,” Lydia points out.

“Let him plot all he wants. Just don’t let him move from plotting to doing.”

Lydia gives an amused snort. “I’ll take first watch, then.”

Stiles thinks he’s going to be too cold to sleep, but the exertion catches up with him, and he falls asleep. He’s plagued almost immediately by bad dreams, Peter with red eyes, laughing at him, closing him into a tiny room to rot. He feels like he’s suffocating, and wakes up clawing at his throat and gasping. Derek soothes him back to sleep both times.

Elsa sweeps back in a few hours later. When she sees that Peter isn’t with them, she sends one of the gnomes to fetch him. He strolls in looking like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Stiles starts getting his outer gear back on, glowering at Peter.

“So you’re going to have to wait a thousand years before you see Olivia and your son again,” he says.

For the first time since Elsa spoke to Peter, a flicker of genuine emotion touches his face. “Regrettable,” he says briskly, “but Olivia, well. Olivia knew exactly who and what I was, so the decisions I’ve made here wouldn’t surprise her in the least.”

“Would they disappoint her?” Derek asks bitingly.

“You can ask her,” Peter says. “After all, you’ll be seeing her long before I will.”

Boyd and Isaac have to grab Derek before he can break another chair over Peter’s head. Both of them shoot an uneasy look at Elsa, who gives them a nasty smirk.

“Okay, you know what?” Stiles decides. “Here’s what’s going to happen. We’re going to go back to see Lea. She’s going to give you the crown. I will take it back to the physical realm and trade it for Malia’s safety. Because the Falcon won’t care who delivers it as long as it’s delivered. And if we bring you back to the real world, then we have to get you out of it again, and I’d much rather you stay here.”

“What guarantee do I have that you’ll actually do any of that?” Peter asks. “You could keep it for yourself and let Malia die.”

“I could,” Stiles says. “Maybe I even will. But you’re just going to have to take my word for it that I won’t.”

“Then why should I allow it?” Peter asks.

Stiles bares his teeth at Peter and says, “Because you’re going to have to come to terms with the fact that you exist in a world where I have power now. I’m not a scared boy anymore. I’m the alpha of a badass pack, and I have powerful friends. I don’t give a fuck what you or Elsa think of it. If you cross me, I will do worse than bury you, since that didn’t seem to work out the first time. So how about you let me bring the crown to the Falcon because that’s just the God damned way I say it’s gonna be?”

Peter’s eyes narrow, and then his face splits into a wide smile. “I’m really looking forward to how this is going to go in the long-term, Stiles. You’re so much more fun now than you were when I met you.”

Stiles nods slowly, then says, “Lydia? Kick him in the balls.”

Lydia starts forward, and Peter retreats hastily, holding his hands up in surrender. “Please don’t.”

“Then for once in your miserable life, death, and afterlife, keep your fucking mouth shut,” Stiles says, and turns to Elsa. “I’m five hundred percent done here. Let’s go.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahah I don't think this is what anyone was expecting. Hope it doesn't disappoint. ^_^

 

Elsa makes a gesture like she’s drawing a square. The Way opens before them. Like Lea, she can’t drop them on her sister’s doorstep. But she gets them closer than Peter and Deaton were able to at the beginning. It’s only about a two-hour trek across a frozen plain, and then they’re inside the ice caves. Stiles is seething and won’t talk to anybody. He wonders how they’re going to handle this, long-term. He doesn’t even dare kill Peter again – or have Allison do it – because that would undoubtedly make Elsa furious, and nobody wants to make an enemy out of a Faerie Queen.

“Why, Elsa, darling sister!” Lea greets them, as they come into her hall. She stands and clasps Elsa’s hands between her own. Elsa scowls at her. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen you. We must celebrate your – ”

Stiles is about to say ‘screw celebration’ because he’s five hundred percent done making nice to faeries, but he doesn’t need to. Elsa snatches her hands back and says, “I have your key, Lea, but Peter is mine now. He’s going to serve in my court for a thousand years.” To Peter, she adds, “And you’re going to be the lowest of the low, nothing but a slave. I’ll use you as I see fit, torment you, and all you’ll be able to do is beg for more.”

“That sounds drastically unappealing,” Peter replies. “The key, my queen.”

Elsa preens at the words ‘my queen’, and holds up a hand, producing the key literally out of thin air. It’s made of pure silver, and she hands it over to Lea with a triumphant smirk.

“My dearest love,” Lea says to Peter, with a sigh. “You know I won’t be able to save you from her.”

“I know. The crown, please, Leanandsidhe.”

Lea just laughs, a sound like silver bells, and slides the crown off her head. She places it gently on Peter’s and says, “You’re right. It _does_ look better on me.”

Peter takes the crown off, amused, and hands it over to Stiles. Stiles snatches it from him with a growl. “Well, then,” Peter says. “Our business is concluded. I have places I need to be, so Elsa, if you could open a Way for us back to Beacon Hills – ”

“I don’t believe I shall,” Elsa says, with a petulant sniff.

Peter sighs. “You said you would give me leave to take the crown to the mortal realm.”

“I did, but I never said I would open the Way for you.”

Something inside Stiles snaps at this. He’s not even up to arguing with Peter about whether or not he gets to come with them when they free Malia. He’ll handle that once the Way is open. For now, he just wants to get away from Elsa. “Look! Lady! You’ve gotten what you want. You’ll get to torment his sorry, obnoxious, lying ass for the next thousand years, or however long it takes him to talk you out of it. Try to keep him in Faerie because I don’t want him anywhere near me. But the sooner he can get the crown where it needs to be, the sooner he’ll be back here and you can start beating the shit out of him. Or sucking his dick. Whichever it is you’re angling to do, because honestly, I can’t fucking tell.”

Elsa’s jaw is agape. “You cannot speak to me that way, you puny child – ”

“In case it’s escaped your notice, I’m having a _really bad day_ ,” Stiles growls back at her. “I just want to get the hell out of here before it can get worse, because I’m learning that when you’re in Faerie, your day can get ‘worse’ pretty damn fast.”

Elsa narrows her eyes at him, then tosses her head and turns back to Peter. “You will return straightaway,” she says.

Peter laughs. “No,” he says. “I don’t think I will.”

Now everyone gapes, except Lea, who just covers her mouth with one hand like she’s hiding a smile. Elsa reaches out and slaps Peter hard across the face. “You insolent, arrogant – you serve me, now! You belong to me and you will do as you’re told!”

“Hardly,” Peter says. He reaches out and pats Elsa on the cheek. “Unfortunately, darling, I had already sworn an oath to Stiles here that my dead body would be going back into the ground in two days. Therefore, any oath I swore to you was, on its face, invalid. And now that the crown is in our hands, I don’t have to lick your boots any longer, so run along.”

“You – ” Both Elsa and Stiles stare at him with open mouths. Elsa recovers first. “That’s not fair! You’ll do as I say!”

“Now, sister,” Lea says, mirth overflowing in her voice. “It’s hardly Peter’s fault if _you_ didn’t think to ask if there were any previous oaths that would render yours null and void.”

Elsa snarls at her sister. “You stay out of this!” She takes a deep breath and then turns to Stiles, her voice suddenly sweet and gentle. “Honorable boy in red,” she says, “surely you understand that I was deceived by this viper. If you would release him from the oath he swore to you, so he could fulfill the one he swore to me, I would look on it as a matter of utmost kindness.”

It takes effort for Stiles to keep a straight face, but he replies with, “The bargain we struck is between myself and Peter. It doesn’t concern you.” When Elsa just stares at him in shocked rage, he adds, “And I believe you yourself did point out that Peter is nothing but a liar through and through. You really should have known better.”

Peter chuckles in the background. “Well said, Stiles.”

Elsa gives another snarl, and a freezing wind sweeps through the room as one of her hands comes up. Shards of ice form in her hands, and Derek shoves himself in front of Stiles, shifting to his partial form. It’s unnecessary. Before Elsa can loose her attack, there’s a loud crack of thunder and they shatter in her hands.

“Sister, darling,” Lea says, but her voice is no longer friendly. “They have a pledge of safe conduct while in my home. You wouldn’t think of assaulting my guests, would you?”

Elsa screams and stamps her foot on the floor like she’s about to throw a temper tantrum. “I hate you!” she shrieks, and then disappears in a cloud of snow.

“Whoa,” Stiles says.

Lea sighs. “Honestly. She’s a grown woman.” She turns to Peter and adds, “And you!” She pokes a finger into Peter’s chest. “Shame on you for antagonizing her like that.”

“You enjoyed it,” Peter says, without an ounce of remorse.

Lea giggles. “Yes, yes, I did.”

“Okay, wait, can we just break this down for those of us who don’t deal with faeries all the time so we can be sure of what just happened?” Boyd asks.

Lydia rubs a hand over her face. “Peter tricked Elsa, agreeing to serve in her court when he couldn’t because he had already made a promise to Stiles that he would die when he’s due. Then he had her come back here with us – he _knew_ she would insist on doing that – so when Elsa inevitably got pissed, Lea would protect us because of the pledge of safe conduct.”

“Well, and also because she does like to see Elsa annoyed,” Peter says.

“So you gave up the chance to live for a thousand years?” Isaac asks.

“Please,” Peter says with a snort. “Even if I _was_ interested in another thousand years of life, it certainly wouldn’t be as Elsa’s whipping boy, as Stiles put it. Death is a much preferred option.”

“You said she’d forget all about that,” Stiles says.

“True,” Peter says, “and she would have, in time, but it still wasn’t something that I would have volunteered for.”

“You could have, I don’t know, not led us to believe you were in the actual process of betraying us,” Lydia says tartly. “You’re lucky that we didn’t just put a knife in your back and call this entire mess done.”

“Or let Derek beat me to death?” Peter says complacently. “Elsa would have torn you apart and you knew it. But I do apologize for my little deception. If you hadn’t been angry, she would have known I had no intention of going through with it. Elsa, like most faeries, always looks for the double-cross. If she thought I was double-crossing you, she wouldn’t realize I was actually double-crossing her.”

Stiles throws his hands up in the air. “Faeries!”

Peter just smiles. “Now, Lea, I don’t suppose I could trouble you for a Way home?”

“In exchange for a kiss,” she says, and laughs when Peter leans forward and brushes his lips over hers. “Ah, Peter. You’re so different now. You grew up, you found love, you even found peace. Whatever would I do with you now?”

“Wicked, despicable things, I’m sure,” Peter says.

“Oh, without question,” Lea says. “I’ll never forget you, darling.”

Peter laughs. “Yes, you will.”

“I suppose so,” Lea says. “But I imagine it will take longer than usual.” She opens her palm and the doorway springs open in it. “This leads back whence you came. May fortune smile upon you, Peter. And as for you, boy in red . . . do visit again. It was very interesting to meet you.”

“Interesting is one word for it,” Stiles says, and Lea just laughs.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Going through the Way to Beacon Hills feels like stepping into a sauna.

Objectively, Stiles knows it can’t actually be that warm. It’s only March. The temperature is probably in the fifties or sixties. But after the dry, bitter chill of Winter in Faerie, it’s almost overpowering. He starts stripping off layers of clothing before he can take more than a few steps.

Erica is sitting next to the place they left from. Stiles assumes that they arranged for a watch so the others would know when they got back. She lifts her head and lets out a howl that brings the others jogging from inside the house. For a few minutes, Stiles is swarmed with greeting pack members, hugs and cheek rubs and back slaps. The others are likewise occupied, although like him, they’re trying to strip off their winter gear at the same time.

After a couple minutes have gone by, he’s managed to untangle himself from all his things. He hears a slight noise of alarm from several pack members, and turns to see Peter sagging to the ground. Derek has grabbed him to keep him on his feet. Peter’s skin is pale, lips a grayish blue, and his breathing is clearly labored.

“I don’t have much time left,” he says. “We need to get this done.”

Stiles frowns slightly. “You’re not in very good shape,” he says, thinking that not only is Peter literally dying, but at this point he’s been awake for something like sixty hours straight. Stiles has done that; he knows how it starts to feel after a while. Like everything is blurry and every muscle aches. “I don’t think you actually need to be there for the exchange. We could – ”

“No.” Peter reaches out, and dying or not, his grip is like a vise on Stiles’ wrist. “Let me see her. One more time, let me see her.”

After a moment, Stiles nods. In a rapid, clipped voice, he says, “Lydia, Isaac, Boyd, stay here, get some rest. Mac and Danny, stay with them. Scott, Allison, Erica, you’re with me. Derek?”

“I’ll come with you,” Derek says with a nod, still holding Peter upright.

“I have to call my dad to let him know we’re back, and there are a few things I want to grab from the house, like my chain mail, because I really don’t trust this chick as far as I can throw her. Derek, get Peter in the car. Everyone else, suit up.”

In order for everyone to fit in the car, Derek shifts to his wolf form and sprawls out across the laps in the backseat. Allison is again behind Peter, but she doesn’t bother with the crossbow this time. Peter looks like – well, he looks like he’s dying, which Stiles supposes makes sense.

They don’t make any effort to be stealthy. Stiles goes to help Peter out of the car but then Scott does it instead, and if he’s a little rougher than he probably needs to be, Peter doesn’t complain. Stiles is carrying the box that holds the Crown of Erceldoune, but when they reach the door, he hands it to Peter without being asked, and raps on the door.

The Falcon opens it herself, eyes the group of them, and says, “Do you always travel with an entourage?”

“Whenever possible,” Peter says, and she stands back to let him in. Stiles’ gaze darts over to Malia, who appears to be asleep in her circle. She’s wearing the same clothes she was several days ago, and she doesn’t have a cushion or a blanket. His jaw tightens in some anger, but he doesn’t say anything. Peter glances at her, but likewise doesn’t mention it. “One Crown of Erceldoune, as promised,” he says, opening the box so she can see it. “And now I’ll have my daughter, thank you very much.”

“After I inspect it to determine its authenticity,” the Falcon says.

“Certainly,” Peter says, “as long as you’re able to do that with my hand around your throat. Because if you do not release my daughter as promised, I’m going to paint the walls with your blood.”

The Falcon gives him an arch, unimpressed look. “I’ve heard that before.”

“Never from me,” Peter says.

“To be frank, you don’t look like you could best an angry kitten right now, Mr. Hale,” the Falcon says, her voice somewhat dry. “Was your journey that trying?”

“Well, it has a lot to do with the fact that I was dead when all this started,” Peter says complacently.

There’s a beat while it sinks in, and then the Falcon’s eyes go wide. Her hands tremble the tiniest bit.

“Oh, yes, you weren’t aware of that, were you,” Peter says. “That you tried to summon a dead person. You’re lucky the entire spell didn’t blow up in your face – or worse. Now will you please just inspect the damned crown and give me my daughter back, because I’m due to go back in the ground any minute.”

To that, she has no response. She takes the Crown of Erceldoune out of the box that they had provided, and walks over to a table on which she has a briefcase. She takes out a number of tools and begins inspecting the crown within an inch of its life. Peter stays right by her elbow while she does this, and he doesn’t protest. Stiles and his pack stand in a tight little cluster near the door, watching the Falcon’s two cronies as they stand ominously in the loft. Stiles knows it’s going to be a disaster if it comes to bloodshed, but he doubts it will. If the Falcon wasn’t a woman of her word, she wouldn’t have gotten this job in the first place.

Fortunately for the comfort level of everyone in the building, it only takes a minute before she pronounces, “Genuine,” and places it back in the box that they had brought it in. She tosses it over to one of her men, who snatches it out of the air without effort. Then, without prompting, she walks over to the circle where Malia is imprisoned. She places one hand against the invisible wall, murmurs a few soft words, and Stiles sees it start to dissolve, a strange shimmer in the air.

Peter kneels down next to Malia. She comes awake with a jerk as soon as his hand comes within a few inches of her, snarling and baring her teeth at him. “Easy, now,” he says in a hushed tone. “Easy.”

She doesn’t stop snarling, but she allows Peter to reach out and caress her hair. “There, you’re all right,” he says. “You’re all right, Malia. We’re here to help you.”

A look of confusion crosses Malia’s face, and it’s quickly followed by her eyes welling up with tears. “Daddy,” she whimpers, and Stiles’ breath catches in his throat. But before Peter can say anything, she says, “I want my daddy.”

Peter’s face closes off, and even Allison winces. “Yes, sweetheart, we’re going to get you home to your daddy,” he says. “Can I help you up?”

She gives a little nod. They get her on her feet, and Stiles shrugs off his jacket and wraps her in it. He still feels warm, anyway, after the prolonged time in Faerie. She doesn’t seem to want anyone near her, and Stiles gives them plenty of space. He watches the Falcon as she closes her briefcase and heads for the door on the opposite wall.

Scott gives Stiles a questioning look as if to say ‘we’re just going to let her go?’ and Stiles responds with a quick shake of his head. He calls his father and agrees to meet him at the station. The house where Malia’s adoptive father lives isn’t far away, and Stiles knows there will be a lot fewer questions if there’s a police officer present to take her home.

He thinks they can all squeeze into the Jeep, but Malia freaks out at the idea of that many people being close to her. She crawls into the back by herself and presses herself against one of the doors, holding up her hands to defend herself. Scott offers to stay at the old barn and call one of the others to come pick him up. Allison agrees to stay with him. They wind up with Malia and Peter in the backseat, Erica in the front with Derek in his wolf form in the footwell with his chin on her lap.

“You stay here,” Stiles says to Peter, when they reach the station. For a minute, it looks like Peter might argue, but then he decides against it. Stiles and Derek coax Malia out of the Jeep and over to the Cruiser.

Sheriff Stilinski greets them with a bear hug. He keeps his distance from Malia, who flinches every time there’s a loud noise. Derek decides to ride with them. Malia seems to like him okay. Stiles supposes that Derek is her cousin, so there might be some similarity of scent, something that means something to her.

“We’ll see her home,” Peter says, when Stiles gets back in the Jeep.

“Okay,” Stiles says, not wanting to argue with him. He follows the cruiser down the road and then parks on the opposite side of the street, so Peter can see. Derek has Malia by the elbow, gently, and helps her up the stairs. Peter watches in silence while the sheriff rings the bell, and Mr. Tate answers it. He stares at them in blank disbelief for a few moments, and then he grabs Malia and pulls her into an embrace. Malia goes stiff in his arms for a moment, but then burrows her face into the crook of his shoulder.

Derek jogs back over to the car and slides into the back next to Peter. Nobody says anything for a long minute. The sheriff has gone into the house, presumably to give Mr. Tate more details about where and how Malia was found.

The silence goes on so long that Stiles finally looks over at Peter and for a moment, he thinks that he’s dead. His eyes are open, but he’s utterly still. His skin has gone even more gray, and his hair is lying limp and lank around his face.

“Peter,” Stiles says sharply. Peter doesn’t flinch. He blinks, slowly, then turns to look at him. Stiles doesn’t know what to say. “Are you all right? I mean, relatively speaking?”

“Yes,” Peter says. “Yes, I’m fine.”

The silence in the car continues to stretch. Stiles hesitates, his hands twisting on the steering wheel. What do you say to someone who only has hours, maybe only minutes, left to live? “Do you want – is there anywhere you want to go?” he asks, thinking that maybe Peter wants to visit his wife’s grave or something like that.

“No,” Peter says, and closes his eyes. “Just take me back to your den.”

There isn’t anything Stiles can say to argue, so he starts down the road. They get back to the den about twenty minutes later. Peter can’t climb the fence, so they have to open the panel for him. Derek has to support him heavily as they go in through the front door.

Danny has picked up Scott and Allison, so they’re back, and everyone is at the den. They all greet him as Derek gently lays Peter down on some of the cushions in the indentation in front of the fireplace. Peter is shivering, and Derek gets him a blanket. Stiles opens his mouth to ask Peter if he wants a drink, or anything like that, and then he realizes what he needs to do. He points at Peter and says, “You’re going to watch Frozen. It’s Disney’s adaptation about the Snow Queen and it’s literally as unlike the actual faerie as possible. I can now say that with one hundred percent certainty.”

Peter gives a little snort of laughter, but he doesn’t argue as Stiles puts the movie on. His eyes are half-closed, but he does direct his attention to the television, which Stiles figures is as much as he can ask for.

“I’ll be in the kitchen,” Stiles says quietly to Scott, who’s closest, and he slips away.

Butter. Molasses. Sugar, flour, and baking soda. Ginger and cinnamon and cloves.

He goes into a bit of a trance as he throws the ingredients together, the recipe so familiar by now that he could literally make it in his sleep, and is fairly sure he has on occasion. He has to let the dough refrigerate for half an hour after it’s been put together, and takes that time to quietly check in with each pack member who stayed behind, ask how their vacation has been so far, if he missed anything exciting while he was gone. The others are all gathered in the living room. Nobody really seems to know what to make of Peter, just sitting there, eyes fixed on the children’s movie.

Derek looks up, cautiously scenting the air as Stiles pokes his head in. “Gingersnaps?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, and everybody perks up. “First batch is in the oven now.”

He does a few more things while he’s waiting. He calls Gwen’s office and makes an appointment, because he’s pretty sure he’s going to need some work to unpack all of this. He updates Chris by text and Deaton by e-mail. He’s also receiving periodic texts from his father. He promises that he’ll be home all day the next day, so he can have some spring break and spend some time with his father.

Each cookie sheet has twelve cookies on it, which seems perfect since he has twelve people there. But it seems cruel to introduce Peter to the cookies and then only give him one. Stiles decides he’ll forfeit his own, and he brings the first batch in after it’s cooled enough to eat.

Peter gives him a somewhat curious look as he shoves a cookie at him. “I take it that I don’t get any choice in this matter,” he says.

“Eat the cookie, Peter,” Stiles says.

Peter shrugs and takes a bite. His eyes go a little wide. “God _damn_ ,” he says, after swallowing. “That’s a pretty good cookie.”

“Doing what I can with what I’ve got,” Stiles says.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus concludes the latest installment in ~~my love affair with Peter Hale~~ The Sum of Its Parts! Stay tuned on [my tumblr](http://gingersnapwolves.tumblr.com) for updates regarding the next fic! Thanks for reading, everybody! <3

 

Peter reaches for another cookie, but stops after two. It seems to take him a lot of effort to chew and swallow. Stiles finishes up with the cookies while the movie plays, and the last batch comes out of the oven about the same time that it’s finished. The first few batches are already gone. He finally sits down, and realizes in that moment how tired he is. The sun hasn’t even set, but he’s ready to close his eyes and sleep for a week. But he can’t. Not until Peter’s gone.

The others are quietly talking about what happened, about their adventures in Faerie and what happened with Malia and her adoptive father. “I don’t know, just, doesn’t it feel like the bad guys won?” Scott finally asks. “I mean, the Falcon kidnapped Malia, threatened to kill her, and in the end she got exactly what she wanted and she got away with it.”

“Who says she got away with it?” Stiles asks, with a sideways smile.

Everyone in the room turns and looks at him, including Peter. Derek groans. “Okay,” he says. “What did you do?”

Stiles grins. “Well, Interpol never had a _picture_ of the Falcon, right? Only a description. We only knew who she was because a hunter had met her. Different entity. So I snapped a few photos of her and her lackeys while she was busy tonight, inspecting the crown.”

“Well, I guess that’s better than nothing,” Isaac says.

“I _also_ ,” Stiles continues, “slipped a GPS tracking chip into the box that the Crown of Erceldoune was in. I knew she’d inspect it for authenticity, but she never really looked at the box itself. Oh, and it looks like that GPS chip is currently sitting in a bag at the airport in Fresno. I presume she’s waiting for a flight to San Francisco or LAX so she can get on an international flight.” He gestures with his phone and says, “My dad forwarded all the info to Interpol, and – oh, look at this text he sent me. The Falcon and her two cronies have been apprehended by TSA and are being taken into custody. My father is going to make sure that the Crown of Erceldoune gets turned over to someone who can Ark of the Covenant that thing.”

Derek gives him a smirk and leans over to rub his cheek over Stiles’ hair. “That’s what I like to hear.”

Peter is giving him a somewhat surprised look. “You really never cease to amaze me, Stiles,” he says.

Stiles shrugs. “I work with the law, not against it. That’s part of what makes me good at what I do. It helps having my dad on the inside, but it also helps knowing how all that shit works.”

“No, that’s not what surprises me,” Peter says. “I’m just surprised you bothered. You didn’t really have a stake in this.”

“Technically? No,” Stiles says. He’s quiet for a moment while he thinks about how to phrase this. “But people don’t get to fuck around on my territory,” he says. “It would set a terrible precedent to let her get away with something like this. Even though the girl she kidnapped had no connection to me, even though I never would have even _known_ if she hadn’t botched the summoning spell . . . nobody just walks into Beacon Hills and does whatever the fuck they feel like.”

Peter’s mouth curves into a slight smile. “Well put,” he says, and gets to his feet. “Walk with me?”

“Sure.” Stiles gets up as well.

Peter is weak and unsteady, but he walks on his own steam. Stiles knows that a few of the wolves are following him, but they don’t venture too close. If Peter’s going to try to kill him, he’s going to have his work cut out for him in his present state. He follows Peter and they walk in silence. He’s not surprised when Peter heads back to the grave they had taken him out of. He sits down on the edge, his legs dangling over the side, and Stiles sits down next to him.

“You will watch out for her, yes?” Peter says, after a minute of silence.

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “Of course. She’s Derek’s cousin.”

Peter nods and continues to look off into the distance.

“Sooooo . . .” Stiles says. “Is this it? I mean, is this _it_? You’re really just . . . you don’t have any nefarious plans, you’re not going to try to talk me into some magical spell to prolong your life that you just happen to know about? You’re not going to try to get away?” When Peter just gives him an amused look, Stiles’ voice falters. “You really didn’t . . . you really didn’t intend to stay. You were actually telling the truth.”

“I do that quite a lot,” Peter says, “yet people are always surprised.”

Stiles chokes out a weak little laugh at the quote. “You don’t . . .”

Peter sighs. “Stiles. You have to understand. I did this for my daughter. No other reason. Death . . . changes a person. As the pain and torment I endured after the fire changed me, so did my death. I had no desire to come back to this world. Not until Malia needed me.”

Stiles is quiet for a long time. “What’s it like?” he finally asks.

“Dying?”

“Yeah.” Stiles’ voice wavers slightly. “Did it – did it hurt?”

“Yes,” Peter says simply, and Stiles flinches. “It was an exquisite agony. Not just the wounds to the flesh, you understand, but what happens afterwards. A period of . . . reflection. I suppose a religious person would call it purgatory. Facing the regrets of one’s life. The sins that one committed, for whatever reason. Accepting that it’s over, that things can’t be changed, that whatever regrets you have can no longer be answered. It’s an agony that only makes the resulting relief more sweet.”

“What do you mean?” Stiles asks.

“Death,” Peter says. “It’s a sort of . . . peace. A feeling of being one with everything, that . . . everything is as it is meant to be, that all things in life have some purpose.” He shakes his head. “It’s rather difficult to put into words, to be honest. But it is worth it, Stiles. All the regrets, the sorrow, the agony – it is worth it, in the end.” He glances over at Stiles. “I was never angry with you for killing me, Stiles. Even during the pain. I understood the reasons why you did it, and in my own way, I was grateful. Forgiveness isn’t something you should feel I need to grant . . . but if it helps, I do forgive you.”

Stiles gives a choked little sob. “Okay,” he says.

“Now,” Peter says, “I’m tired.” He climbs down into the grave, settles himself back, somehow, into the exact same position Stiles had found him in. His eyes close. “I do like you, Stiles,” he murmurs, and with that, he goes still.

Stiles watches him for a moment, wondering if he should check a pulse, but it’s unnecessary. Before another moment has gone by, Peter’s body has started to decay from around him, and within half a minute, the only thing left are the bones that they had dug up a few days previous.

Derek finds him there a little while later, and although there are tear marks on his face, his eyes are dry. “You okay?” Derek asks.

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “I am.”

Derek helps him to his feet and hands him a shovel. Stiles begins to shovel dirt in over Peter’s bones. After a few minutes, Derek starts to help. The other pack members drift out and take turns shoveling dirt back into the grave. It doesn’t take long to finish, with so many helping hands. Isaac and Derek tamp the dirt down, and then Isaac tosses a handful of grass seed onto it. The sky rumbles uneasily; they’re due for rain.

“Come on,” Derek says, extending a hand to Stiles. “Let’s go in.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

They order pizza and watch another movie. Stiles can barely keep his eyes open through it, and decides to turn in afterwards, even though it’s barely eight PM. The trip through Faerie was exhausting. Derek decides to come with him. He stays in his human form, and they leave the light in the corner on so he can prop himself against a few cushions and read. Stiles curls up with his head in Derek’s lap, and falls asleep almost immediately.

In the dream, he’s walking through the forest, and he comes on where the Hale house was supposed to be. But instead of the burned out shell, instead of the mansion that had once stood there, there’s a grove of birch trees, and a memorial plaque dedicated to the people who had died there. He thinks back to things that Lydia has said about plants and symbolism and dreams. Birches are new beginnings, renewal, letting go of the past.

Sitting in the grove of trees, with his back leaning against one, is a young man. He looks whole and healthy, dressed in the same white V-neck and black pants and bare feet, and he looks up when Stiles approaches.

“Well,” Peter says, “that was an adventure.”

Stiles nearly chokes. “What are you doing here?” he demands. “Aren’t you supposed to be off being one-with-everything by now?”

“I didn’t really expect this myself,” Peter agrees, studying his hands. “Perhaps a chunk of my consciousness got stuck in your psyche as a result of all the magic, of our connection. This might just be a shadow, or an imprint of the former Peter Hale, so to speak. Or maybe I really am who you and I think I am, and the universe has decided that I’ll have a different form of Purgatory, to aid you and help protect your pack.” He gives an elegant shrug. “Or perhaps you really have lost your marbles once and for all.”

“Oh my God!” Stiles flails. “Why is this my life?!”

Peter gives him a toothy grin. “I’m glad to see you too, Stiles.”

Stiles sits down with him underneath the tree. “You’re a jerk,” he says.

“Guilty,” Peter agrees easily.

They sit in silence for several long minutes.

“You want to help me with a puzzle I’ve been trying to solve?” Stiles finally asks.

That same wolfish smile touches Peter’s face. “I would be delighted,” he says.

Stiles tells him everything about the events of the last few years. He tells him about the Conclave and the hunters he met there, the conflict between the Elders and some of the people who really ran the show, like Mikael and Julien. He tells him about Oregon and the sorcerer werewolf who had somehow teamed up with Ruben Gutierrez to try to kill him. He tells him about the hunter prisons and Cora and Liliana Santos. He tells him about the quiet, ongoing civil war that’s breaking out all over the hunter world.

“And the thing is,” he finally says, “I just feel like this all fits together. Like there’s something big that I’m missing.”

“You’re not looking for a some _thing_ , though, are you?” Peter asks. “You’re looking for a some _one_.”

Stile deflates with relief. “I’m not crazy?”

“Well, that’s a matter of some debate,” Peter says, and Stiles rolls his eyes. “But no. I do see what you mean. It does seem like someone is very deliberately targeting you. There are questions about everything that’s happened that are very difficult to answer. How did the hunters know that you and the alpha pack were actually that close, that you would go help them? How did someone as dense as Ruben Gutierrez come up with such a decent plan?” He starts to count things off on his fingers. “Who arranged for Ruben and Gabriel Khan to hook up in the first place? How did Max Loesch, a mediocre hunter who had just gotten out of prison, wind up in the prestigious alpha pack hunters? Did someone arrange for him to be there specifically so you could be framed?

“Furthermore,” he continues, “even events that are unrelated on the surface might be connected. Why did Deucalion suddenly decide to come after you, when you’d been alpha here for three years? Who knew that Cora was in the prison in Arizona, and was her release intentional? How did anybody know that I had a daughter, and a vulnerable one at that? Was there a reason that Agent McCall was so intensely convinced that I was still alive? Was he really that much of a dick, or had someone fed him false information to try to upset the stability here?

“I’m not saying that all these things are connected,” Peter says. “When you start conspiracy theorizing, you start weaving in threads that aren’t really there, jumping at shadows. But, I do agree that there does seem to be something very systematic about what’s been happening here. And whoever is behind it, almost certainly has to be a hunter.”

“See, the thing is,” Stiles says, “it reminds me of something I said about Sebastian Stone. About the messages he sent to Deaton. That they weren’t saying ‘don’t try to stop me’ or ‘don’t forget you owe me’. They said ‘come and get me’. I feel like I’m being poked with a sharp stick, like someone is just . . . trying to play games with me, and I don’t even know who they are.”

“Mm.” Peter’s face creases thoughtfully. “So what happened to the lovely Gutierrez family?”

Stiles lets out a breath. “After the hunters found out about what happened with Liliana, apparently a bunch of them went down to Arizona to demand some sort of, of accountability from the Gutierrez family,” he says. “I heard all of this from Chris afterwards. One of the brothers, Hector, disappeared, so the family immediately blamed it on him and said he was acting without instruction and Francisco only lied to the police to cover for him afterwards. Which is still a shitty thing to do, but not _as_ shitty as actively conspiring to kill her and frame her husband. So things settled down a bit. A lot of people are really unhappy with them, and they’ve been sort of blacklisted. Nobody wants to work with them anymore, so they’re sticking to their own territory. Which is better than nothing, I guess.”

“And the prisons?”

“Julien and Chris are trying to get some oversight on them,” Stiles says. “You know, make sure conditions are humane, et cetera. The Stoddard family actually agreed and let Julien go take a look at theirs. He says there are no kids there, and to the best of his ability to ascertain, everyone there deserves to be executed under the Code and is dead within six months anyway. So it isn’t _great_ , what they’re doing, but it’s a hell of a lot better than it could be. The Gutierrez family and the Nazario family both refused the inspection. I’ve located the Gutierrez facility by using Google earth, but I can’t find the Nazario facility. Not yet, anyway.”

“Slow progress,” Peter says, and Stiles nods wearily. “But back to our conspiracy theorizing. This is the first time you’ve spoken to someone about this. You haven’t told Derek. Why not?”

Stiles lets out a breath. “I have PTSD,” he says. “Pretty bad. It’s better now than it used to be, but there was a long time after . . . what happened . . . that I jumped at every shadow. Hypervigilance, it’s called. I’m afraid that if I try to bring this up, they’ll just pat me on the head and tell me that I’m seeing things that aren’t there.”

“Ah,” Peter says, and thankfully doesn’t offer his opinion on Stiles’ struggles with his mental health. “And now that you’ve run it by a neutral third party?”

“I should tell them,” Stiles says. “But I don’t want to scare them.”

“You should know better than to keep secrets from your lupa,” Peter says. “Olivia was the one person that I could, and did, tell everything.”

“I’ll think about it,” Stiles says.

“Fair enough.” Peter stares out into space for a minute, “I’m going to need some time to think about this, Stiles. And you should get some real sleep.” He stands up and walks away, vanishing into the trees. Moments later, the dream fades and fragments.

When he wakes up, it’s mid-morning. Half the pack is still lounging in bed, and he’s surprised to find that he actually feels rested. Whether Peter isn’t actually inhabiting his mind, or if he’s not a drain on Stiles’ energy now that they’re not constantly arguing, or whether his earlier exhaustion was sheer emotional stress, he’s not sure. But he feels okay, and he can’t complain about that.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles devotes the rest of his spring break to being as relaxed as possible. He bakes a ton of cookies, sends some to the hospital as thanks for everything they’ve done for him (and a pre-emptive apology for the next time he’ll wind up there). He sends a care package to Justin and the alpha pack and boxes to his pack’s various families. Boyd, Erica, and Mac all have younger siblings who love his cookies.

They have a barbecue and play Ultimate Frisbee. They have a pool party at Lydia’s and eat a truly astonishing amount of pizza. He helps his father fix some things around the house and chips in with the yard work at the McCall house. It’s maybe not the most exciting spring break in the world, but he has no problem with taking it easy.

He doesn’t see or hear from Peter at all during this time, and he doesn’t mention it to anybody because he wants to have a few days to test a theory and make sure he really understands what’s happening. On Saturday night, he’s spending the night at his father’s house along with Derek. All the pack members are with their individual families, since it’s the last night of their break.

He’s lying in bed with Derek curled up at his side, the dim lamp in the corner there to ward away nightmares. He closes his eyes and draws himself inward, pictures the birch grove in his mind, and says, _Peter?_

Almost immediately, Peter emerges from the trees. “You called?”

“I guess I was just wondering if you were still here,” Stiles says. “Since I hadn’t heard from you.”

Peter gives a little shrug. “I’ll try to stay out of your way as much as possible.”

“Okay,” Stiles says. “But like . . . where are you?”

“I’m not really anywhere,” Peter says, like he did at the beginning.

“Are you bored?” Stiles asks. “I mean, just hanging out in the ether until I call for you?”

“It doesn’t really work that way,” Peter replies. “Hanging out in the ether, as you put it, is more like ‘experiencing the universe’. It’s difficult to describe. In any case, don’t worry about me.”

Stiles hesitates. “But. I feel bad. Keeping you from your mate and your family. I could try to, you know, get you sent on. If you wanted.”

Peter shakes his head. “No, thank you. I’m quite content as I am. All things have a purpose, remember? If I had been meant to return to my family, that’s where I would be. If the universe would rather I be available to help you if you need me, I can endure a little separation as penance for my crimes.”

After a moment, Stiles nods. “Okay. If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.” Peter smiles at him. “I’ve been thinking about everything you said. And so far I have two questions, or lines of inquiry might be a better way to put it. Firstly, what happened to the three elders after they were deposed? They are, to my mind, prime suspects. Agnes particularly must hate you and would have good reason to seek revenge.”

“Yeah.” Stiles frowns. “I don’t know. I can ask Chris.”

“Secondly, where did Liliana Santos come from? She wasn’t with the Gutierrez family before – you said that it was her husband who had worked with them before and gotten her a position at the prison. So who was she working for before that, and did they know about her plans, did they encourage her, would they be a potential ally?”

“I don’t know the answer to that, either,” Stiles admits. He had thought about the elders before, but never about Liliana Santos’ hunting origins. He had researched her childhood a little, for the purpose of stirring up the hunter community, but not the other hunters she had worked with.

“As I said. Lines of inquiry. Find the answers, and we’ll have still more pieces to the puzzle.”

Stiles nods. “Okay. And thank you.”

“No thanks needed,” Peter replies, and then smiles again, showing teeth. “Now tell me a story.”

“Fuck you, no. I need to get some sleep.”

Peter laughs and then vanishes, and for the first time, his laugh doesn’t send chills up Stiles’ spine. He rolls over and goes to sleep.

When he wakes up the next morning, he calls Deaton. “So, Peter’s still hanging out in my head,” he says, and as usual, the veterinarian shows no surprise whatsoever. “Blah, blah, metaphysical connection, blah, blah, penance for his crimes. Anyway. We’ve talked it out and I’ve decided I’m okay with it. There are worse things than having a really intelligent dude with tons of experience with the supernatural available at my beck and call. And he leaves me alone when I don’t need anything.”

“All right,” Deaton says, waiting for the question.

“The thing is, I was worried at first that it would make me super tired again, but it hasn’t, and I’m not sure why. Like if I should still be worried about it or not.”

“Don’t borrow trouble, Stiles,” Deaton says. “There are a lot of possibilities. Like I said, the act of being a conduit for a shade is so rare that nobody really knows how it works. It’s possible that it was having a negative effect on you because you were an unwilling host, or because Peter was fighting to get free of you. Now that you two have agreed to live in peace, so to speak, it doesn’t affect you the same way. I really just don’t know, but as long as it’s not a problem for you, I don’t see why you two can’t co-exist.”

“Okay,” Stiles says. “Thanks.”

He heads down to the kitchen to make breakfast. Derek was stirring when he got up, so he’ll be down soon, and his father is already up and puttering, and given another half hour he’ll start finding unhealthy things to eat. So Stiles makes cornmeal pancakes and scrambled eggs with ham. Derek shambles downstairs just as he’s finishing up and catches him around the waist in a hug from behind, burying his face in the crook of Stiles’ shoulder and nuzzling contentedly. There’s tea for Derek and coffee for Stiles and his father, and they all sit around and stuff their faces.

“How’s Malia doing?” Stiles asks as he starts on his second plate.

“Well, physically, she’s okay,” Tom says. “Undernourished, obviously, but that’s all. Mentally, emotionally . . .” He makes a seesaw gesture with his hand. “I think it could be a lot worse. She spent a long time locked into that form as a coyote, and so there’s a lot that’s confusing for her. But she’s obviously happy to be reunited with her father, and he says she’s talking a little, asking questions. I took the liberty of recommending Gwen, but Malia’s father says he can’t afford to drive to Fresno every week. Gwen’s going to get me the name of somebody local that she thinks can help.”

“That’s good,” Stiles says. He can’t imagine what it’s been like for Malia, but at least she’s back with people who care about her.

“What time are you heading out today?” Tom asks, dishing himself up another helping of eggs.

“Around three, probably,” Stiles says. “We’re not in a rush, but I want to get in before the dinner hour.”

Tom nods and says, “Good, you’ll have time to tell me all the details of what you’ve been hiding from me before you go.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles says, making a face. He had never figured he was going to get out of town without this little interrogation. So he starts after Chris’ visit with the Falcon, talking about trying to figure out what she was after. “So, since Peter needed to be there, his shade was talking about this spell that could temporarily resurrect him.”

Tom gives a snort and says, “Oh, right, like we’d ever do that.”

Stiles purses his lips and looks at the ceiling.

“Oh my God,” Tom says, just like Stiles does, and Derek lets out a quiet snicker. “Oh my _God_. You didn’t.” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “What is wrong with you? Tell me – Derek, tell me honestly. Have I failed as a father?”

“Hardly,” Derek says dryly, reaching for the syrup.

“Sooooo,” Stiles says, and continues with the story. Tom looks like he has an enormous headache, which encourages Stiles to skip some of the details, like exactly how many faerie princesses that Peter was sleeping with. He thinks about skipping the pretend double-cross, but then decides to include it. It’s important that his father knows that Peter _had_ the chance to betray him, and didn’t. It wasn’t as if he would have known the difference; he had no idea that the promise Peter had made him could have been considered binding.

“So then we got Malia, you took her home, I made Peter gingersnaps, and then he literally crawled back into his grave and dissolved back into bones,” Stiles says.

“So he’s really gone?” Tom asks. “Permanently?”

Stiles huffs out a breath. “Well. That’s the part I needed to talk to you both about. He’s still a shade, and he can still talk to me.”

Derek frowns. “What? Since when?”

“Since right after it happened. We both figured he would, you know, go back to being all dead, but he didn’t. But he isn’t bothering me. Like, literally, the only time he’s talked to me since then was when I called to see if he was even still there.”

“That can’t be good for you,” Tom says.

“Well, it isn’t making me super tired anymore,” Stiles says, “so that’s a good thing.” He gives a little shrug. “I know it sounds kind of crazy, but as long as he isn’t bugging me, you know, I’m okay with it. He’s . . . like me, in a lot of ways. I like having him to talk to.”

Derek and Tom exchange a look. Tom throws his hands in the air and says, “I think I’m going to leave this between you, God, and your therapist.”

“Agreed,” Derek says. “As long as you promise to tell Gwen.”

“Yeah, I promise,” Stiles says. “Sometimes I think that when she finishes her sessions with me, she probably has a few shots of whiskey.”

“God knows I would,” Tom mutters.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

A few weeks later, they’re back in Beacon Hills for their usual weekend trip. Everyone is off with their respective families, so it’s only Derek and Stiles that are standing outside the shell of the old Hale house, watching the demolition crew as they get things ready.

Stiles reaches out and squeezes Derek’s hand. He doesn’t need to ask ‘are you sure about this’ because he has already, a dozen times, and Derek himself made all of the arrangements, talked to Cora about it over Skype, made sure everything was taken care of. He just wants Derek to know that he’s there.

“I want to plant some trees when they’re done,” Derek says, watching the men in their hard hats and construction gear. “You know, make a memorial. That’s what we’ve always done. Returned to the earth. I think the house should do the same.”

Stiles rubs his thumb over the back of Derek’s hand. “How about birch trees?” he suggests.

Derek nods. “Yeah, okay,” he says. “Birch trees sound good.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Shade and his Daughter [PODFIC]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11044863) by [Opalsong](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Opalsong/pseuds/Opalsong)




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